


Lullaby

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Sex, Fluff, Gentle Sex, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mention of Sherlock's Drug Problems, Mutual Pining, Mystrade with Cats, Psychic Bond, Romantic Soulmates, Soul Bond, Soulmates, They're Properly Together By The End I Promise, True Love, background Johnlock, lots and lots of comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22723033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Twice a year—on your birthday and theirs—you can hear your soulmate's voice throughout the night. It gives each fated pair a chance to talk and bond before they meet. Sharing names, locations or other identifying details is unwise. It's rumoured that if you try it, even in hints, the connection will be severed and you'll never find each other.Today is Mycroft Holmes's 38th birthday. He and his soulmate have had two nights together a year for the last two decades, never even knowing each other's names.But it's getting harder and harder to keep saying goodbye.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 414
Kudos: 1283
Collections: Mystrade Soulmates Week 2020





	1. Emotional

**Author's Note:**

> **I don't allow translations. If you find my work posted anywhere but AO3, please let me know.**

He arrives as gently as some half-forgotten scent upon the air. His presence stirs through the very edge of Mycroft's senses, noticeable only for its familiarity—and for the fact Mycroft has waited all day to perceive it.

The murmur comes in his ear, soft and fond.

_"Happy birthday, darlin'..."_

Mycroft smiles to himself, pulling at the corner of his lip. His lover feels as close to him in these moments as if he's stepped up behind Mycroft at the kitchen counter, wrapped both arms around his waist and rested his chin upon his shoulder.

"Thank you," he says, his voice quiet in the solitude of his kitchen. He continues peeling and halving enough carrots for one. "What have you bought me this year?"

_"Nice bottle of scotch, a tie and a fountain pen. You know the cupboard in my spare room's nearly full now?"_

"I'm never certain if you're teasing me about the gifts, you know."

_"M'not. They're all here waiting for you. I'm looking at them right now, as it happens."_

Mycroft's eyes flicker shut; he can almost feel the tender nuzzle against his cheek.

 _"Where are you, love?"_ his soulmate asks.

"Cooking," Mycroft says, wishing to god he could just gently lift his chin and feel the nuzzle dip lower, real and solid, enjoy his lover's mouth grazing down his neck. This ache gets worse every year. "My usual salad."

_"With the cumin and the carrots?"_

"Mm. I thought I'd be adventurous this year. I've added toasted pine nuts and cherry tomatoes."

_"Racy."_

"I'm told life is for living. Have you eaten yet?"

_"Ehh. I've got leftover lamb rogan josh I can warm up if I get hungry. You know me, darlin'. Coffee'll do tonight."_

Mycroft smiles, transferring his halved carrots to a glass bowl already prepared with olive oil and cumin seeds. "What will you be cooking for me? When I arrive to claim my glittering hoard of birthday gifts, that is."

His soulmate chuckles; for Mycroft, it is one of only a handful of perfect sounds upon this earth.

 _"Got it all planned,"_ the wicked man says in his ear. _"Recipes pinned ready on the kitchen board. D'you still like salted caramel?"_

Mycroft tries not to groan. "Beast. My waistline is expanding at the thought."

_"Y'know, I hear so much about this waistline... I bet when I finally get my hands on it, there's nothing there."_

"Mhm," Mycroft hums, as he checks each carrot is properly coated. "Due to diligent management, I assure you. All easily shipwrecked by salted caramel."

 _"S'alright, love,"_ his soulmate purrs. _"You'll be getting a lot more exercise then."_

"Lord. Something else you've stockpiled for me to come and claim?"

_"Mhm. Twenty years of it."_

"I only hope I survive such a busy night."

_"You won't be getting it all at once, darlin'. Don't worry. We'll spread it over six months off work together."_

A small, indulgent shiver trickles down Mycroft's back. He doesn't doubt at all the man means it. It's been mentioned before, this sabbatical they'll both take once they've found each other and their bond can be nurtured on more than just two nights a year, their connection more than simply auditory. It's true they'll need time to bond, time to create a home. Mycroft has saved more than enough income to cover several months. He's saved enough for a home, too—a new one, free of the memories of this place. He's spent most of his life alone here. Frankly, it's little more than a waiting room.

His own body has been kept waiting, too.

"I'll probably take at least six months of training," he muses, as he transfers the carrots onto a baking tray. "Keep your expectations low, dear heart."

_"So long as I can finally hear all those gorgeous sounds in person. S'all I want. I'll handle the rest."_

Mycroft shivers again. "Beast..."

_"Missed you, darlin'."_

"Mm... yes, I... I've missed you, too. A great deal." The feeling of missing has rather characterised the last two decades of Mycroft's life. Every single day, he misses a man he's never seen, a man whose name he doesn't even know. Every night, his body aches to be touched by hands he's never felt. He's told things to the warm and gentle voice in his ear that he couldn't bear to tell anyone else, and it's always been the same with his soulmate, ever since the start: this quiet, helpless longing to be known, wholly and completely. "It's wonderful to hear your voice again."

_"At least we get a few more hours together tonight."_

"The benefit of a late October birthday."

_"M'sorry I was born in June. I mean it."_

"Darling, please don't ever lament your birth within my hearing again."

_"No, no. I mean, I just wish we were both in December or dead early January or something... longer nights. More time with you."_

"We'd then have to wait twelve long months to speak again. I happen to think we planned it quite well, in fact..." Mycroft closes the oven door with care, removes his gloves and reaches for the egg-shaped timer beside the fridge. "One summer meeting and an autumn one."

_"I'll be happier when we meet every day. Every morning. Waking up and just... seeing you there, just... and you'll never vanish again. You'll never just be gone."_

Mycroft's throat tightens a little. 

"Mm," he murmurs, setting his timer. "Yes, that will be better."

_"Sorry. Slushy. I, erm... I had a rough few months."_

"Oh? I'm sorry to hear that."

Mycroft can hear his soulmate's nervousness through the bond, trying to judge how much is safe to say. They've been cripplingly cautious all these years, desperate not to sever their connection with some clumsy dropped information. The horror stories are horrifying indeed.

 _"Just been tough,"_ his soulmate mumbles at last. _"Work and family. Y'know."_

"You can tell me everything when we meet," Mycroft says, reassuringly.

 _"Y-yeah."_ There comes a pause as Mycroft washes his hands. _"Love you."_

Mycroft's heart twists. Those words are still a surprise after twenty years; he's sure they'll feel more real someday. "I love you, too. Very much."

_"Keep thinking... y'know, when we... I can take life a bit easier. Right now the game's just how to stay busy. How to pass the days. Overtime's... something to do, y'know? I don't like coming home to an empty house."_

Mycroft swallows, his fingers shaking as he dries his hands on a teatowel. "You know I don't mind if you have... friends. To pass the time."

_"I know, darlin'. I just... I can't stop wishing they were you."_

Mycroft can't speak for a moment, overcome.

 _"Or if they're nice,"_ his soulmate goes on, _"and the time's passing, I... I start to worry I'm... y'know, making a complicated situation. I don't want that to happen. I don't want you to finally get here and there's somebody sitting in your seat. Couldn't bear that."_

Mycroft tries to force himself to say he would understand; he tries with all his might. He doesn't want his soulmate to be lonely for years on end. While he himself is a creature of solitude, disinclined to company for company's sake, his soulmate is an extrovert who loves people and touch and conversation. It's not been easy for either of them, but his soulmate struggles deeply.

If he wished to be truly loving in this moment, Mycroft would urge the man to fill that empty seat and live his only chance at life. He'd promise him they can come to some arrangement, if they ever do meet.

But Mycroft isn't that noble or good-hearted.

If he finds his soulmate, Mycroft wants him entirely and utterly to himself for the rest of eternity. He can't bear the thought of sharing him. They've made so many plans, promised each other so much. They've drawn as close as two human souls can come without knowing each other's names or seeing each other's faces.

 _"Darlin'?"_ his soulmate whispers, nervous.

"I'm here," Mycroft says at once. "I'm here, I.... I'm a little emotional. That's all." His chest grips. "You often have this effect on me."

His soulmate pauses, holding something back. _"D'you ever... y'know? Other people."_

Mycroft almost laughs. "I wouldn't know where to begin."

 _"D'you ever want to?"_ his soulmate asks.

A guilty twinge tightens Mycroft's stomach. It's not often—the truth is that he's almost immune to the physical charms of other humans—and he certainly never makes any attempts at connection. But on very rare occasions, the universe grants some other being the power to distract him.

He's very sorry that one of those occasions is currently progressing.

Early in September, Sherlock picked up a contact whose surveillance photographs have been hard to push out of Mycroft's mind: characterful dark eyes, striking silver hair, a grin which could make a marble statue swoon. 

Normally, Mycroft would meet and appraise all of Sherlock's new friends in person. Several unsuitable influences have been weeded out that way over the years.

But in the case of Detective Inspector Lestrade, Mycroft sent Anthea in his stead. 

He doesn't want to want someone. He doesn't like that he did, however briefly, however distantly. He hates that on first sight of Lestrade, he quietly checked his file for any known details of a partner or a spouse.

In truth, there's only one man that Mycroft truly, deeply wants.

 _I wish I knew what you looked like,_ he thinks suddenly in the silence. His heart aches. How he hates this house. _I wish I could imagine you. Just to... to drive out the..._

"I love you very much," he says, alone in the quiet of his kitchen. He lets out the rest with a breath. "For what it's worth, I haven't changed my mind. I don't wish you to be lonely, while we're..."

 _"Waiting,"_ his soulmate murmurs.

Mycroft's eyes close. "I haven't come across anyone who would make that waiting easier. If you have, I sincerely do not mind. I'd be distressed if you were lonely."

_"I... I try to... y'know, other people who are waiting. So they'll understand, when..."_

"That seems considerate."

_"I wouldn't mind either, darlin'. If you needed that."_

Mycroft thinks with a painful flash of Lestrade: single, according to his file; bisexual, according to his internet search records; friendly and understanding, according to Anthea. It would be nice to have someone to hold—someone to kiss—dear Christ, even just someone to talk to. If Lestrade is amiable enough to take even the irascible and awkward Sherlock under his wing, he'd surely meet Mycroft for coffee and conversation now and then. 

But Mycroft can't bear the thought of his pulse picking up for the wrong man. He can't imagine the misery of letting himself grow fond of Lestrade and enjoy his company, when somewhere in this world there exists a perfect husband, lonely and waiting for Mycroft. It's tragic that the voice Mycroft hears only twice every year is his best friend—tragic and true.

To hear another voice murmuring fondness in his ear would possibly only make him weep. He wouldn't wish the awkwardness of that encounter upon anyone on this earth.

"My... food should be around half an hour," he tells the silence, proud of how composed he manages to sound.

There comes a gentle pause.

 _"Alright, darlin',"_ his soulmate says. _"I'll make some toast when you eat. Cereal maybe."_ He knows what to say, Mycroft thinks. He always knows what to say. _"Have you got changed after work yet? Bet you're still in your suit like me, aren't you? Let's get comfy, love. Got the whole night ahead."_


	2. Gifts

They brew the night's first coffee shortly after eight. Mycroft keeps a special Colombia San Lorenzo roast for their birthdays. It's the darkest blend that his palate will tolerate, and it requires a hefty spoonful of brown sugar. 

But then, these nights are short. They're not for self-restraint and responsible decisions. 

He settles barefoot on the couch to drink it, his tie undone and his collar crumpled. As he lifts the coffee to his nose, its heat and its scent start to dispel some of the weariness of the day.

_ "What did the British do before we got our hands on coffee?"  _ his soulmate wonders aloud.

"Sleep," Mycroft suggests, prompting a delightful laugh. He smirks as he takes a sip of coffee. "Have you taken annual leave tomorrow?"

_ "Mm. Thought about taking today off too, but we've got a big c—... ah, thing happening. Going on at the minute. I couldn't really abandon them all for two days when I've had their noses held up against the grindstone." _

These tantalising little glimpses always make Mycroft's stomach squirm. It's not the first time he's had the impression his soulmate leads a team of some kind, whose work involves duty and responsibility. The man is clearly a hard worker, a devoted leader. 

It bodes well for their future together.  _ When it finally commences,  _ Mycroft thinks dimly, sipping his coffee.

_ "How 'bout you?"  _ his soulmate asks.  _ "Are you off tomorrow?" _

Mycroft is not. Civil servants of his rank with a soulbond are rare, and an unlocated soulmate is a dangerous weakness to have. There are numerous underworld powers at work across the planet who would be fascinated to hear that somewhere out there, undiscovered, is a man whom Mycroft Holmes would give anything and everything to meet. That particular secret has now been kept safe for two decades.

If Mycroft were to take four predictable days of annual leave each year, in two very obvious pairs, it would rather give the game away.

"A similar situation to yours," he says simply, gathering his coffee mug against his chest. Anthea will keep him on his feet tomorrow. If she has to stuff him into the stationery cupboard for an hour to nap while leaning against a shelf, she will. "I look forward to cashing my obscene amount of banked annual leave someday," Mycroft says.

He can hear his soulmate grinning; it makes him smile as well. 

_ "D'you remember the night we met, love? Didn't need black coffee then." _

They certainly hadn't. "I'd never heard someone so excited to find out I simply exist," Mycroft remarks. He curls his feet beneath him, relaxing back into the couch. "I imagine you didn't sleep for days, did you?"

_ "I was telling everyone. Anyone. Going from dorm to dorm the next morning... waking them up just to tell them I've got a soulmate and I met him last night, and he's clever as hell and ridiculously posh." _

Mycroft grins, helpless to his own joy. "That counted as a win for you, then?"

_ "Christ, yeah. Telling all my mates it looks like I'm going to be the gay prince of somewhere. I was over the moon." _

Mycroft laughs aloud. 

"Heaven help us," he says. "I'm not that well-spoken, am I?"

_ "Darlin'. Darlin', you're... god, I can't wait 'til I can show you. Not just tell you. You're going to be sick of me within days. Begging me to give you a minute's peace. I'll just be kissing you, carrying you around." _

These nights are heaven, Mycroft thinks, almost dazed with contentment as he sinks back against the cushions. An hour or two together and he feels like he's eighteen again, talking to the excited twenty-one-year-old who will belong to him for all his life.

"I remember being relieved to hear you were male," he murmurs, rubbing the side of his coffee mug. "It was... well, pleasant to be handed a conclusion by the powers that be."

_ "Yeah? Had you been wondering?" _

"Very privately and nervously." Mycroft smiles at the memories, glancing down into his coffee. "I'd just about convinced myself I wasn't actually homosexual. I merely wanted to be."

His soulmate laughs.  _ "I drew a line under all that, huh?" _

"To my great reassurance."

There's a warm, happy pause as they both remember, both holding their hot cups of coffee, smelling the steam. It doesn't matter that they're many miles apart.

_ "I was a bit devastated on my 18th, y'know. When nobody was there. Everybody'd told me not to get my hopes up. It's not guaranteed, et cetera. But... well, I wanted it." _

Mycroft's heart tugs. 

"You... knew perhaps," he says. "In your bones. That someone should be there."

_ "Mhm. Made sure I was alone when the sun start setting, so... y'know, we could talk." _

"And then I very rudely didn't show up."

_ "You were fourteen, darlin'. Not old enough yet. Not your fault."  _ Mycroft's soulmate pauses, the quiet comfortable between them.  _ "Did you think anyone would be there? When the sun went down on your birthday, I mean?" _

Mycroft remembers it as if it were yesterday—nervously forcing himself to act as if everything were perfectly normal. He'd drawn the curtains so he wouldn't be able to monitor the sinking of the sun through the sky. He sat down to occupy himself with school work at his bureau, fixing his focus into place so that when the silent hours of darkness came and the facts of the matter grew apparent, he would have a firm reminder of what truly mattered in life: making something of himself. He didn't require a soulmate to be successful. He was grossly unlikely to have one, unsuited to human courtship in every way. He was determined not to be disappointed by the comfortable solitude of his own mind.

Then, mid-essay on Caesar's first invasion of Britain, a burst of sound came in his ear—a yell as if from someone suddenly sitting by his side. A young man with a London accent demanded,  _ "Did anyone else hear that? There was a weird sort of... guys, can we turn the stereo down a sec?"  _ Mycroft had gasped aloud in alarm, dropping his pen in a spatter of black ink across his textbook. Even now, twenty years later to the day, he can still hear his soulmate's desperate plea.  _ "Oh, Christ—g-guys, I just heard—hello? Is someone actually there?" _

Stirring on his couch, with a slow sip of coffee, Mycroft lets his smile fill his voice.

"I'd never have dared to hope," he says. "I... confess I was a rather solitary child. My family weren't ever inclined to sentiment. You were a delightful surprise."

His soulmate hums, soft and fond. 

_ "It's weird,"  _ he says.  _ "When you turn eighteen and nobody's there, everyone tells you not to be disappointed. They all rush to promise you that you can still fall in love and get married, soulbonds aren't everything, yada yada... none of them think to say your soulmate might just be younger. But it'll happen fifty percent of the time. Right?" _

"Mm..." It tightens Mycroft's stomach, imagining it: the day after his soulmate's eighteenth, a loving family all striving to console him. At least there was some comfort for him. "My family were rather more—..."

_ This is dangerous,  _ he realises with a lurch. He stops himself at once.  _ I cannot lose you. _

"Well," he says, awkwardly, and hears his soulmate breathe out. The knot loosens in his heart. "I'm sorry I made you wait a little longer."

_ "You were worth it, love. It... made it a nice surprise, to be honest." _

"Yes. Yes, very much so."

_ "Just when I'd given up hope,"  _ his soulmate adds.

There's a gentle pause. Mycroft drinks; he listens to his lover drink beside him. If he closes his eyes, they're sharing this couch. All he needs is a pair of warm hands to wrap around his feet, slowly rub them, gather them into a husband's lap to be tended to.

_ "Treacle?"  _ his soulmate murmurs, and Mycroft inhales. 'Treacle' will always quietly slaughter him.

"Mm? I'm here."

_ "Remind me what those cats you like're called." _

"Russian blues." Mycroft smiles to himself, lifting his coffee. "Why?"

_ "Thought so. Saw an advert for kittens in the paper today." _

"Oh? And how many have you reserved for me?"

His soulmate doesn't miss a beat.  _ "I'll get you all six, if you come collect them with me." _

Mycroft closes his eyes, his chest aching.  _ Tell me where to be. Which newspaper. Anything. I'm so tired of being alone.  _

"Will the six of them not gang up on this Golden Retriever you still believe we're having?" he asks.

His soulmate takes a second. When he speaks, his voice is tight. 

_ "I'll forget the dog if you come find me. We'll have a thousand Russian blues. Ten thousand. Just come find me, darlin'. Before I'm too old to bend down and change all their litter trays." _

*

When they were a little younger, they'd make love several times during the night. The wait from October to June is eight months. It left them longing to be intimate and feeling they should have their fill of each other while they could, even when exhausted at four in the morning and struggling to keep their eyes open.

As they've grown up together, they've discovered that just once—done properly—suits them better.

It begins in the shower close to midnight, warm water and suds, sharing the sensations even if they're apart. Mycroft's soulmate has a breathtaking penchant for narration. His voice dips low and seems to nuzzle in Mycroft's ear; he guides Mycroft's hands over his own body with a gentle confidence which makes Mycroft tremble. When they're close, they leave the shower together and dry off, then go to bed. Though it's not the same bed, it doesn't matter.

Mycroft keeps this toy specially for their nights together: soft black silicon, L-shaped, deep and rumbling vibrations which take his breath like nothing else. It cost him a small fortune. It's been worth every penny, even though it only leaves the velvet bag in his bedside twice a year. Using it without his soulmate present would feel as wrong as fucking someone else. Its firmness and shape means he can settle it inside himself, kneel upright on the bed and rock down, enjoying it the way he'd ride his lover.

In Mycroft's mind, the pleasure isn't something he's causing himself. It's being granted to him, given. His soulmate's voice curls and strokes across his skin as he rocks, crooning to him, whispering how beautiful he sounds—how perfect he is—hushing him with love as he sobs. When they first made love, nineteen years ago on this very night, Mycroft worried that being vocal would make him seem vulgar. In time, he came to understand that sound is all they have for now. This is the only pleasure he can give to his soulmate.

He wants his soulmate to have all of it.

There's a bed somewhere in his timezone where his lover lies warm and safe, gently panting, stroking himself as he imagines Mycroft on top of him—a Mycroft he's never seen, no doubt a version far more pleasing to the eye and in much better shape than reality— _ a blessing almost,  _ Mycroft thinks sometimes, to be, in his lover's mind, flawless and soft-skinned and pleasing in every single way, unscarred by the passing years, unsoftened by so many lapses in his diet. To his soulmate, in this moment, he is perfect. He's composed of nothing more than cherished sounds. It's easy to feel—and to be—beautiful.

The pleasure grows slowly, familiar and deep. Though there's no skin to stroke, no lips to kiss with longing, the covers feel soft within Mycroft's scrunched hands. It doesn't matter if his hair is drying wildly into curls. It doesn't matter if he looks both tragic and ridiculous, grinding down in the rhythm of his soulmate's breath, pleading softly for things he can't have. It doesn't matter that he's wilting on the vine and he's lonely.

There's just pleasure, and they're close, and it's perfect.

*

_ "Found it?" _

Mycroft scans his sleepy gaze down the list of songs, his phone screen bright in the darkness. He's stayed naked after sex, fragile in his own skin beneath the covers. It helps him feel close. It's otherwise rare for him to be naked—never for more than a few moments, getting dressed in the empty silence each morning.

"Remind me of the artist's name," he murmurs.

_ "Elina,"  _ his soulmate says. They could be sharing a pillow. He sounds so gentle just after he's come.  _ "It's called 'Here with Me'."  _ There comes a quiet pause.  _ "You might cry, love." _

Mycroft huffs.  _ As if it will change things.  _ Though it's too much to put into words, he's almost glad of the opportunity to cry. It seems like another small gift he can offer his lover. They can't touch; they can't cradle each other after sex; they can't kiss and comfort and fall to sleep. But he can let the man hear him in pain.

Though not a beautiful gift, it's a rare one.

_ "Found it?"  _ his soulmate asks, softly.

"Mm," Mycroft murmurs. "I've found it."

_ "Okay. On three? One... two..." _

In the same moment, they both quietly tap to hear the song.

Mycroft is alright until the chorus, when his soulmate starts to quietly sing to him.

Then he isn't alright.


	3. Lonely

At this time of year, the sun will rise over London at half past seven in the morning. It gives them thirteen and a half hours together, though it always feels like less.

At half past two, they're making coffee in the kitchen in the dark. Mycroft hasn't even knotted the sash of his dressing robe. The tiles are cold beneath his naked feet; it's almost comforting to note the sensation. He's never vulnerable like this at any other time. All of his humanity is saved for these two short nights each year, and it's wonderful and awful to stand here in the silence, barefoot, dishevelled, his body aching gently after sex, watching his own hands tremble as they open the usually forbidden jar of sugar. He wishes there were arms around him, looking after him. He wishes there was closeness to soften this quiet. 

They've had over half their time. 

The passing hours have now become a countdown, whether Mycroft wants them to be or not. In five hours, there won't be company any more—only silence. 

He concentrates on the thought that his lover is stirring a coffee mug somewhere, longing for his arms as well.

_ "Treacle?" _

Mycroft adds a second spoonful of sugar. "Mm?"

_ "Who's the other person you want?" _

A flash of soft grey hair and big brown eyes comes immediately to Mycroft's mind. He says nothing for a moment, glancing out through the kitchen window across the darkened grounds.

Pale, he lifts his cup of coffee to his mouth.

"I've never spoken to him," he says. "I don't intend to." His throat tries to squeeze itself shut; he soothes it open once more with a drink. "A friend of a relative. It's... juvenile. I expect it will fade." 

_ "Why, sweetheart?" _

The truth stings in the back of Mycroft's eyes. He waits until it's eased to speak.

"I only want him because I'm lonely," he says, in a voice as void of emotion as he'd tell someone the time. "I only noticed him because he looks like I imagine you might. That is all."

_ "Yeah?"  _ Gentleness softens every word. _ "What's he look like?" _

Mycroft breathes in. Every person in the world has heard the stories: connections severed for good, all for trying to narrow the search just a little. Something as simple as trying to ascertain hair colour or height is apparently enough to do it. 

He doesn't want that to risk that happening to them. 

His life is lonely and miserable enough already—meaningful company for just short of twenty-one hours each year. If he had to live the rest of his life without these nights, he might question whether he wished to live the rest of his life.

"He seems very caring," he says at last, and nothing more, even though it leaves him aching to the bone. He wants to tell his soulmate all about Lestrade. He wants to describe his energy, his vitality, his kindness towards Sherlock. He has nobody else to share these things with. "Do you have a... at the moment?"

_ "No. Not anymore." _

"Did you...?"

_ "E-Erm. Sort of. She, erm... well, she kinda cheated. She didn't see it that way. Said the two of us aren't soulmates, so what's the problem with seeing other people? 'Cept she hid it all from me, so... she must've known on some level I'd... y'know. Be hurt." _

Mycroft's heart strains.  _ How cruel,  _ he thinks, staring down into his coffee cup. He finds himself struggling to process it. Out there somewhere, quite likely sound asleep in her bed, exists a woman who had the loyal affection of the man that Mycroft would trade the very stars to meet. She had his company all to herself; she tossed it aside.

_ "I'm trying to stick with friends now,"  _ his soulmate mumbles. _ "Real friends, I mean. Not..." _

Mycroft swallows. "I understand."

_ "I figure I can... y'know, have company. Without..."  _ Mycroft's soulmate audibly shivers.  _ "You should make a friend, love. Ring up your caring guy. Ask him for a drink. Don't waste the rest of your thirties on me." _

Mycroft takes a moment to respond, wanting to sound unaffected.

"You have never wasted even a moment of my life," he says. "Not one."

The break in his soulmate's breath breaks his heart.  _ "Darlin', I don't want you to be lonely." _

"I'm afraid that's beyond your control."

_ "But what if... Jesus, what if we don't ever—" _

Mycroft closes his eyes, unable to bear it. He'll have spent his entire existence waiting for no reason. He'll either face it, he thinks, or it will destroy him. Those are the only options in life.

"Some people never hear a voice at all," he says. He takes a long, silent drink of coffee. "They cope somehow. It's... perhaps we should... consider ourselves fortunate. To have known each other even this way."

_ "But..."  _ He's close to tears. Mycroft puts his coffee down and drops his head in silence into his hands, leaning against the cold flat marble of the counter, powerless to soothe the man he loves, unable to stroke the tears away. His shoulders shake under the sudden weight of it.  _ "S-Sweetheart, it's... I can't handle the thought of you on your own. I know what it's like. I can't bear it sometimes. I don't want you to feel like that. Please promise me you'll take him for a drink." _

Mycroft's throat works. "No," he says. "No, I will not do that."

_ "Why?" _

"Because—" Mycroft inhales, biting the words out. "For heaven's sake, we only have five hours left. Please don't distress me. Please don't torture me. Do you understand that the only thing I'd ever want to talk to the wretched man about is you?"

His soulmate doesn't reply; the silence echoes. Mycroft scrapes his fingers backwards through his hair, shaking as he straightens up from the counter.

"I'm fine," he tells the darkness. "I-I'm... this conversation is wholly unproductive. I've made my choice. I would rather have you for two nights every year until I die than have someone else here with me forever. And for what it's worth, I've never said so much as a word to the man. He's ignorant of my existence. As he should be."

The silence stretches on.

Mycroft suddenly realises the sharpness of his tone, the unnecessary way he's speaking. This is his lover, not one of his underlings. He knows at once he'll regret it bitterly in the morning.

"I'm sorry," he whispers—another rare and unbeautiful gift. "I'm sorry, darling. I'm... f-fraught on these nights. You're only thinking of me." Understanding clicks into place. "And I realise it's because you feel so lonely. You don't want me to feel the loneliness that you do. And I don't mean to suggest that my choice should be your choice."

His soulmate doesn't respond. This silence will be twice as heavy when the light returns.

"Sweetheart?" Mycroft begs. "Please speak to me."

_ "M'sorry,"  _ his lover murmurs. Mycroft's heart unwinds from its clench.  _ "I'm sorry, I just... god, I miss you. I've never even met you and I miss you. I can't sleep some nights, missing you. Wishing I could just reach out and... and just..." _

Mycroft opens his eyes to the darkened window, staring at the thin rain now falling over the grounds.

"You always hoped to have me," he says. "That's why you feel it's cruel to be denied full access to me. While you... y-you are still a miracle to me. Even to hear your voice from time to time seems far more than I deserve."

_ "D-Darlin'—" _

"I'm glad you connect so easily with others," Mycroft says. "I'm glad the thought of inviting someone for a drink seems like a small and easy thing to you. To me, it... i-it would seem like asking the universe for a second miracle. I cannot do that. I didn't deserve the first."

_ "Please just... tell me you've got family,"  _ his soulmate begs.  _ "Tell me you've got someone. Anyone. Tell me you're not lonely, treacle." _

Mycroft's heart has never felt so small nor so inadequate. He thinks briefly of his brother, to whom he is nothing but an interfering busybody; his colleagues, who fear him or need him but would never in the least claim to care about him; his parents, whose phone calls never venture far beyond the topic of Sherlock's welfare. 

He would adopt a pet of some kind, but his long hours would be unfair on the poor creature. He would get a plant, but they never last a week in this place. There is no air, no sun, no life. Mycroft's life is all somewhere else, waiting for him to arrive and collect it.

Unable to speak, he hangs his head back over the counter. He wishes he could lie.  _ I'm not lonely, dear heart. Please don't worry about me. _

But it's keeping him alive: the thought that someone out there worries.

Before he can speak, a strange sound disturbs the silence: a soft, distant trill. Distraught, it takes Mycroft several seconds to realise it's the landline phone that occupies an alcove at the foot of the stairs.

He then recalls it's half past two in the morning.

His grief vaporises in an instant, replaced by a far more unsettling sense of concern.

_ "Love?"  _ his soulmate murmurs.

Mycroft swallows, gazing towards the open kitchen door. "Darling, I... my phone is... someone appears to be calling me."

_ "Christ—at this time of night?" _

Mycroft thinks quickly, his heart pounding in the darkness. Very few people have this number. It isn't listed anywhere. He's not certain that anyone but his parents have ever actually called it, and only then when he doesn't immediately answer his mobile. 

The phone's insistent ringing continues. 

"I... I think I might have to—" Mycroft says.

His soulmate responds, wary and gentle.  _ "Alright, love. M'with you. I hope everything's okay." _

Nervously, Mycroft gathers his dressing robe around his body. He proceeds into the hallway and switches on the main light. The phone shudders quietly on its stand by the mirror, waiting for him as he approaches.

Normally, he would answer a call with his name.

He draws a deep breath, picks up the receiver and says instead: "Yes?"

The voice on the other end is a young woman, calm and quiet and professional. 

"Hello," she says. "Am I speaking to Mycroft Holmes?"

Mycroft braces instinctively, glancing into his own eyes in the mirror. "Yes," he says. "Speaking."

"I'm sorry to call you at this time of night, but I'm afraid it's important. I'm ringing from King's College Hospital. We've had a gentleman admitted through the Emergency Department in the last few minutes who had your contact details written on a list in his pocket."

Mycroft's heart hits the ground.  _ Oh, god—what has—  _

"A list of drugs?" he says at once, gripping the receiver. "Sherlock—Sherlock Holmes—he's my younger brother—"

"Yes, sir. I'm afraid it's a suspected overdose."

_ Oh, Christ. No. Not, he's been—h-he hasn't been—  _

"I understand," Mycroft says at once. "Where—King's College, you said?"

"Yes, sir. If you give them your name at the front desk, they'll direct you from there."

"Thank you." Mycroft drops the phone. He's up the stairs before he can even draw a breath, faster in his bare feet than he would be in shoes. He rips his mobile phone from its cord where it's charging, hurriedly arranges a car, then wrenches open his wardrobe to find the quickest outfit he can put on.

Only when he pulls off his dressing gown, throwing it towards the wreckage of his bed, does realisation dawn.

Mycroft stiffens up at once.

The silence closes its grip.

"Darling?" he says.

No answer comes. He can't hear breathing.

"Darling?" he demands again, louder, and reaches instinctively for his throat. His pulse thuds beneath his skin. He's suddenly, terrifyingly alone. "Sweetheart, are you—c-can you hear me?"

_ Sherlock,  _ he thinks, his pulse screaming _. Sherlock's name. He... my brother. Sherlock. _

"Darling, please," he gasps. "Please say something."

No voice replies.


	4. Break

The roads of London are empty and dark. The car which speeds Mycroft along them is empty, too. He seems to fade in and out of existence as they drive, unthinking, expressionless, staring without moving at the rain drops falling on the window. Each passing light source catches in them, filling them with colour for a moment or two, then gone.

_ Gone. _

_ No, not—there is—just some error, I...  _

It's a pause in their connection. They've been put on hold, he thinks, for Sherlock. As soon as Mycroft sees him, ascertains the situation and that there is no serious cause for concern, all will be restored. The gentle voice will surely return at any moment, if only he could calm himself down enough to perceive it.  _ "Love?"  _ he'll say softly, quietly in Mycroft's ear.  _ "How're things going? How's your brother?"  _ Their bond is too close, too strong to sever. Other lesser mortals might push their luck, slyly trying to drop hints to each other, then thoroughly deserve what they get for being so reckless—but not them.

This cannot be how twenty years of gentle love and waiting comes to an end.

_ I didn't say it for him to hear. It was... I wasn't trying to tell him, I was simply... and so we won't have been... _

Getting to Sherlock will be the first stage to fixing this. There's nothing else in Mycroft's head now, simply Sherlock.

As soon as he sees Sherlock, it will be alright somehow.

*

At the hospital there is a doctor, a kind man who introduces himself with a name that is instantly forgotten, then takes Mycroft to a quiet room, attempting to be supportive while he explains what is involved with a drug overdose. He seems to understand very quickly that this is not the first time Mycroft has been summoned somewhere in the middle of the night. The endless hospital corridors pass in a blur. In a tiny family room Mycroft waits in staring silence, smelling the bleach, gazing at the blackness he can still see beyond the window. A nurse brings him a cup of tea. She tries to be reassuring and cheerful, making soothing noises and smiling. Mycroft eventually has to ask her to leave him. He doesn't have the energy to explain to her that there is nothing whatsoever in this world which justifies her smiling. He does not want to be reassured; he does not want to be soothed. He wants it to be fixed.

Finally, after what feels like several weeks of panicked, silent staring, Mycroft is led into the room.

Every time Sherlock does this, he looks exactly like he did the first time: too young, too small, as fragile as a baby bird thrown from a nest. They've dressed him in a white cotton gown with blue spots that he would despise. He's hooked up to breathing apparatus, unconscious, and Mycroft knows at once that he will be so for some hours. 

The medical staff try to offer comfort. They use words like 'stable', 'just in time'.

Then they leave him in the silence, to gaze down at Sherlock and stare.

After some time, Mycroft gathers a hand around his own wrist. As he discovers his fingers are shaking, he realises fully and inescapably that he does indeed still exist, that this is happening—this is the way things are unfolding around him. His throat shrinks itself shut in an instant. Heat blisters over the back of his eyes.

He drops his head, unable to bear it: the bed, the machines, the whitewashed walls. This is the last place in the world he wants to realise how completely he is alone.

"Sweetheart?" he whispers. He's shaking almost too much to speak. No response comes, and Mycroft swallows. The involuntary sound that leaves him is a whimper. There's nobody to hear it. "D-Darling?"

There is nothing.

Mycroft's eyes open. What he sees is Sherlock, blurred and tangled in wires, framed by the slab of white cotton.  _ This is what there is now,  _ Mycroft realises, and the wave of panic and horror is so sharp it cuts his breath. He reaches for his throat, shaking.  _ This is... this is what I've finally...  _

_ And in June, there won't be—  _

_ And every birthday after that—  _

He's going to vomit. A visitor bathroom was pointed out to him earlier, somewhere in the haze. He struggles to his feet, exiting the room so swiftly he knocks over a chair, and makes it to the bathroom just in time.

He empties his stomach of coffee and food until there's nothing left. His entire body seems to want to leave him through his mouth. Every hope he's ever had, every dream, every reason to stay involved with his miserable world streams out through his throat. He keeps wretching and heaving until there's nothing left in his system but a deathly and silent sort of exhaustion, everything empty, every still.

Pale, numb, Mycroft washes his face and hands.

The staff will be discreetly monitoring him. He needs to reach the end of this experience as if everything is perfectly normal. The next stage will be to sit and wait in silence until Sherlock is awake, then there will be decisions to make—arrangements. There will be Sherlock to occupy his thoughts. 

There will come a point some weeks from now when he's left alone with his thoughts, a point when Sherlock decides he is well again, becomes resentful of Mycroft's continued 'interference' and vanishes off into London without a backwards glance—and what will happen then, Mycroft doesn't know.

But once again, the rest of his life is revealed to be meaningless. There is only really Sherlock. He fooled himself that there could be more. He let himself fall into idiotic daydreams of a husband who would bring him to life at last, a home which would be worth going home to.

_ I... _

_ I wish I... one last time—that I love you— _

_ Oh, god—  _

Shaking, Mycroft washes the tears out of his eyes. He needs to walk back to Sherlock's room with some vague semblance of dignity. He needs to make phone calls too, inform Anthea that he will be out of contact tomorrow, inform their parents that yet again he has failed to keep poor Sherlock safe from harm. He cannot break into pieces yet. Very simply, he isn't allowed.

He takes a moment to try smoothing his hair. It's still dishevelled, drying with its curl after his shower. He had no time to dress properly; he threw on a shirt and trousers, then covered it with a more formal coat. He feels like he's half-armoured and half-naked.

_ Not long ago I was making love to you. _

_ Now you are gone. _

Mycroft leaves the bathroom, well aware that he's pale. It seems enough of a miracle to be upright and not openly weeping. As he walks the short stretch of corridor back to Sherlock's room, he glances towards the nurses' station in hope that none of them are watching him. The duty nurse is busy dealing with someone—a visitor.

As Mycroft recognises him, the final standing pillar of his world seems to crumble.

Lestrade has clearly dressed and driven here in a hurry. He obviously left the house without brushing his hair; the takeaway coffee in his hand was acquired en route. The deep grey shadows beneath his eyes suggest he was probably asleep not half an hour ago.

At the sight of him, Mycroft's heart clenches with an immediate wave of distress.

_ No. Please. Not tonight. Not when I—when I might never hear— _

_ And the final thing you ever asked of me was— _

The nurse, explaining something, lifts her arm and gestures this way. Before Lestrade can follow her gaze, Mycroft reaches Sherlock's room. He lets himself inside as swiftly as he can, shutting the door behind him, and tries to recover some sort of composure. He might only have a few seconds. His hands are shaking again, badly, and he can only be grateful that Lestrade will have had professional training in how to deal with shell-shocked relatives. He hopes his distress is assigned to concern for Sherlock, not to anything else.

Righting the chair he knocked over, Mycroft sits down and reaches for Sherlock's chart in an attempt to seem occupied. His heart pounds.

After a few moments, the door handle squeaks.

Lestrade comes cautiously into the room. He's respectful, quiet in his movements, and he flashes Mycroft an awkward smile as he shuts the door. He reaches a hand inside his coat.

"Sorry," he murmurs, producing a Metropolitan Police ID. "I, erm... I'm a mate of Sherlock's. DI Lestrade, Scotland Yard. The street team who found him recognised him and gave me a ring. I'm guessing you're his brother?"

Mycroft closes his mouth.

It opens again of its own accord.

_ No—  _

_ No, I... hearing things. Surely.  _

_ Wishful thinking. _

Realising the poor man is still looking at him, waiting for an answer with growing concern, Mycroft draws a breath and clears his throat.

"Forgive me, Inspector Lestrade," he manages. "I've had something of a long night. My name is Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock is indeed my younger brother."

Lestrade doesn't move. He searches Mycroft's face, suddenly pale, his grip drawing tight on his takeaway coffee. It takes him several seconds to speak.

"Long night?" he checks. Mycroft's heart lurches at the sound of his voice.  _ That voice. Your voice. That's your voice.  _ "You've not slept, have you?"

_ Oh— _

_ Oh, god— _

"Not yet," Mycroft says, staring back at him.  _ Oh, Christ. Please.  _ "It's... i-it's the night of my birthday, you see. So I've been—"

Lestrade's expression breaks. "Darlin'," he says, "when's my birthday?"

Mycroft's heart drops through the floor. "June," he gasps, "June—it's the thirtieth of June—"

Lestrade abandons his coffee on Sherlock's bedside. He comes around the bed in an instant, reaching Mycroft as he gets to his feet.

He hauls Mycroft up into his arms.

They grapple each other, gasping, hands burying at once in each other's hair. Every barrier that Mycroft has ever built seems to shatter. His gasps break into sobs before he can stop them, shaking too hard to feel anything but his soulmate's fingers combing through his hair, stroking him, feeling him, mapping the back of his neck in desperation. Lestrade's voice wraps around him in a rumble, trying to soothe him even as they both shake. 

"It's alright, darlin'. It's all alright. All alright. I've got you. I've got you, you're not gone—"

"Oh, god—oh god, I thought I'd never hear you again—"

"Shhh... shhh, love, m'here. I'm right here." Fierce love roughens Lestrade's voice. His arms draw tight, so tight it hurts, and Mycroft needs it more than anything in the world. He wants his ribs to crack open. He wants to howl. "I'm  _ here, _ and I've got you, and I'm never gonna let you go—not ever, not for a fucking second—"

"Y-you're here—"

"I'm here. I'm here, treacle. It's all okay."

"I thought—a-and I'd never forgive him—never be able to—w-without thinking he'd cost me—"

"Shhh. Shhh, darlin'..." Lestrade's hand curls around the back of Mycroft's neck, cradling him, holding him close to one shoulder as Mycroft trembles in stiffened silence. "I was scared too. I was... J-Jesus, I... I didn't know what to do. You just vanished. Mid-sentence. Just...  _ gone.  _ Then control called me, and said about Sherlock, and I... I just got here on auto-pilot. Couldn't stop thinking. Couldn't stop thinking I'd... I-I'd be there on my birthday in June, just... and you wouldn't be there."

_ No.  _ Mycroft's fingers close in his hair.  _ No. Mine. Mine, mine— _

_ Oh Jesus, mine— _

Lestrade hushes in his ear, rocking him.

"Easy, sweetheart," he whispers. His voice melts through Mycroft's senses like liquid warmth. Nothing in this world has ever felt so comforting. He smells like coffee and cheap shower gel, warm and protective and real, and his shoulders are all the shelter Mycroft will ever need again in his life. As he rocks Mycroft gently, slowing his pulse, he strokes a gentle hand through his dishevelled hair. "There you go. Nice and easy for me. We've had a long night, mm? He seems stable at least..."

Distress jags through Mycroft's soul like a blade. "S-sleeping—"

"Mhm. Best thing for him. Have you spoken to anyone?"

"I... god help me, I barely even... I-I couldn't think. I couldn't listen properly."

"S'alright, love. It's the middle of the night. There'll be someone here to talk to you in the morning. If he's comfortable and he's resting, that's all we need for now. Shall we just keep an eye on him 'til it's light?"

_ Together. _

_ Both of us. _

A rush of love floods through Mycroft's system, burning with sudden realisation. His fingers curl; he shivers, resting his cheek against his soulmate's.

"Gregory," he breathes.

Lestrade shudders in his arms.

"Christ—" Lestrade audibly swallows, overcome. "Y-you don't know how long I've waited to hear—"

Mycroft closes his eyes. 

"I do," he whispers. He tightens both his arms. "It is exactly twenty years."

His soulmate nuzzles slowly against his cheek. "Mycroft," he murmurs, and Mycroft's heart heaves into his throat. He'll never stop shaking again, ever. He'll never let go. "'A friend of a relative', mm?"

"Oh, god—"

"Sherlock said you'd probably be watching me."

"I'm sorry—I-I'm so sorry—"

"What for, beautiful? What've you possibly got to be sorry for?"

_ So much. So, so much.  _ Burying his face in his soulmate's neck, Mycroft forces out the words. "I... I wanted you, even though I... wanted  _ you." _

Gregory huffs, grinning against Mycroft's cheek. His arms tighten ever more. 

"Are you actually apologising for fancying me?" he says. "I've waited twenty fucking years for you to fancy me, love. You should've fancied me sooner."

Mycroft's stomach seems to rip itself in two. "I'm sorry if I'm... a disappointment. When I was younger, I... n-not quite as tired-looking as—"

"Jesus. Right. Darlin'—" Gregory shifts, cupping Mycroft's face in both hands. He pulls back just enough to see Mycroft, to gaze at him, to study with love and hunger all the features of his face. "What d'you think could  _ possibly _ disappoint me?" he demands, hushed. "Look at you.  _ Look at you,  _ sweetheart. You're fucking perfect, aren't you?" 

His thumb sweeps Mycroft's lower lip, pulling it gently. His dark brown eyes catch on the sight.

"And I'll show you," he whispers. "I mean it. I'll show you that you're perfect. You look just like you sound, love. Posh and gorgeous and clever as a king."

Mycroft's throat clamps shut. He swallows, wishing his heart would slow down. 

"You're... g-god help me. I-I've felt so bloody guilty. I couldn't stop looking at your photograph."

His soulmate smiles, eyes softening with a sparkle. "Don't feel guilty," he murmurs. "No more guilt, alright? No more worry either. M'yours. All yours."

_ All mine.  _ "Oh, god—"

"I'm never letting you out of arm's reach again. When we go home, we'll go together. I don't mind where. Give me an hour to pack and I'd sell my flat tomorrow."

_ The house, _ Mycroft realises with a lurch. He can get rid of it. He can sell it, leave it, walk away from it. He doesn't want to return, not for longer than a few minutes to collect a few things from his office. He can't bear to go back to that place where he was alone.

He gazes up into Gregory's eyes, overwhelmed. He reaches out a nervous hand to stroke his stubbled cheek.

He smiles; Mycroft's heart lights up at the pleasure it seems to cause him.

"Yours," Gregory murmurs again.  _ Mine.  _ "You can touch me, sweetheart. That's alright."

Mycroft's heart grips. He glances anxiously at Gregory's lips, struggling to put it into words. What do people normally say? He's never done this.

The thought that he might have spent his whole life alone makes him speak.

"May I kiss you?" he asks. His voice comes small and soft in the quiet. "I've waited most of my life to kiss you. I've been waiting since I was eighteen."

His soulmate's grin could light the world.

"Feel like I  _ am  _ eighteen," he rumbles, his gaze dropping down to Mycroft's mouth. His pupils are huge; Mycroft could soak in them like a hot bath for hours. "I feel like I'm alive at last. Jesus, you're... you're just..."

His expression softens. No words will do.

He wraps his hands gently around Mycroft's jaw.

As he lays his lips on Mycroft's, the world around them falls quiet. His lips feel warm; they're soft, gentle, perfect. His nose nudges the side of Mycroft's, fond, and they shiver as their mouths brush a second time. Shaking, Mycroft returns the careful strokes he's being shown. Gregory trails a gentle thumb beneath his lips, slowing him down—coaxing him to savour it, every tender whisper of contact. Mycroft's innards turn to liquid. 

Shivering, he relaxes into his soulmate's arms.

Somewhere in the softness, gentle and easy steps guide him backwards. He moves without thought, perfectly safe in Gregory's embrace, too enchanted by kissing to care where they're going. His back bumps up against the wall. Gregory presses closer to him, covering him, shielding him, and as their bodies come flush together the kiss deepens. Their mouths seal. A gentle flash of tongue sends heat burning across the back of Mycroft's neck.

He's trembling by the time their lips come apart. They stay close together, breathing, their noses pressed side by side.

Gregory is trembling, too.

"I love you," he murmurs.

Mycroft's very soul takes light. "I love you," he breathes without pause, not needing even a moment to think. "I adore you, darling. I wouldn't have coped if you were gone."

His soulmate nuzzles tenderly against his nose.

"I meant it," Gregory says. "Everything we planned. Take six months off and just be together." His throat muscles flex under Mycroft's fingertips. "Did you mean it?"

The joy is almost dizzying; it's unreal. It's everything Mycroft hoped it would be and more.

"Yes," he breathes. "Yes, I meant it. Every word of it."

Gregory's hands tighten on his waist. "Come home with me," he says. "When we're... when we know Sherlock's alright. I need to see you in my flat. I need to cook something for you and watch you sleep. It won't feel real until I've watched you wake up."

_ God almighty. _

"I need to know he's in good hands," Mycroft says. He opens his eyes to find Gregory gazing at him—a soft, warm, protective gaze. "I need to be certain he'll be alright. That there's nothing he needs."

Gregory nods gently, understanding at once.  _ Of course you understand,  _ Mycroft thinks.  _ How could you be my soulmate, and not understand what he is to me? _

"We'll hang on here 'til he's awake," Gregory says. "We'll chat to a doctor and find out what's going on. We'll put your mind at ease." 

He reaches down, catching Mycroft's fingers gently in his own. 

"And I'll be right here," he promises, as he lifts Mycroft's hand to his mouth. He kisses his knuckles as tenderly as if it's their wedding day, holding Mycroft's gaze. "I'm not taking a single step away from you. Not one, darlin'."


	5. Dawn

It's twenty minutes after seven; the sun is about to rise over London. 

At this time, they'd normally be lying together in bed and whispering goodbye. They'd have convinced each other that eight months isn't really all that long, that the winter goes quickly with work. They'd be pretending they weren't both close to tears, listening to each other's voices grow faint as baby blue begins to bleed through the sky. 

There always comes a point where they don't try to talk properly. It's too distressing, not knowing what the final words that make it through will be, with that awful thought lingering in the back of the mind that these might even be the very final words. Accidents happen; life is fragile. As the sun slips over the horizon, they just whisper  _ "I love you, sweetheart" _ until the last.

Then Greg usually curls up in bed in the silence, drags the covers over his head and sobs like a kid. 

He's tried skipping that stage and getting on with his life, but he can't. He has to cry or he won't cope. He gets it out until he believes his own promise that it won't always be this way, then he gets up, makes coffee, puts on music, does some laundry. The tiny little rituals of life return him to the world.

This year, as the darkness beyond the window starts to soften, Greg looks down with a smile towards his shoulder.

Mycroft is exhausted. He barely stirs as Greg kisses his perfect forehead, settling a little closer with an outtake of breath. He fell asleep in Greg's arms some time ago, halfway through a murmured conversation about their families. They can share all this stuff now.

_ Maybe a sleep or two first though. Rest our ragged souls. _

It's amazing how similar both brothers they look when they're asleep. They've lost that slightly guarded and shrewd expression they share; they're just like any other people, resting gently in the protection of someone they trust.

Greg's never felt so proud in all his life.

The room around them fills slowly with the cooler, softer tones of natural light. He can't stop smiling, looking down at his soulmate as he gently strokes Mycroft's hair. He wants to get married. They only laid eyes on each other a few hours ago, but Greg wants the matching rings and the mortgage and the breakfast in bed every Sunday. This is the first proper day of their lives. He didn't think it would start in a hospital room.

Then, he thinks, life so often does.

He watches Mycroft, cradling him, until there can be no doubt that it's morning. He keeps his eyes on his soulmate, watching the daylight soften Mycroft's sleeping features, half-fearing in the back of his mind that Mycroft will somehow start to fade like a bleached photograph—slip away into nothing—but he doesn't.

He's still here.

He always will be.

Greg kisses the dishevelled dark red hair at the crown of Mycroft's head, closing his eyes in utter joy. In respect to tradition, he sheds a quiet tear or two, wiping them from his cheeks before they can reach his soulmate's hair.  _ I'll make you happy,  _ he promises in silence, as Mycroft stirs and nestles tighter into his arms.  _ I'll make the whole world yours. _

The moment when Mycroft wakes up becomes a memory Greg will cherish. He gives a little twitch and a shudder, breathing in, then starts to stretch. With palpable confusion, he finds himself slumped in an uncomfortable hospital chair, half-cradled in somebody's arms. A second later, memory seems to return; realisation dawns.

He looks up at once for Greg's eyes.

As Greg smiles down at him, reaching out to stroke his cheek, relief floods his perfect features.

"Good morning," Greg murmurs, for the very first time. He brushes back a lock of Mycroft's hair, watching in adoration as he smiles. "You're fucking gorgeous when you sleep... you know that? I'm so bloody lucky."

His soulmate's eyes fill with sunlight.

*

The flat's in a hell of a state. Greg always imagined he'd have some warning before this moment, some time to tidy up and make things nice. He'd much rather have had his nest looking perfect for the day that his posh boy comes to join him in it. But the last few weeks have been a nightmare at work—and without Sam here to see it, he's had no reason to keep things looking good.

Besides, he's now been awake for at least thirty hours. The alternative to letting Mycroft in would be letting Mycroft go, asking him to pop back once Greg's had a chance to sleep and hoover. And Christ knows  _ that's _ not happening.

He unlocks the door with a hopeful glance backwards, checking that Mycroft's still with him.

"M'sorry it's a mess," he says. "It's... well, I left in a hurry this morning. Thought I'd be coming back here alone."

Mycroft's expression gentles at once. 

"It's quite alright," he says, placing a hand on Greg's back. "Sincerely, it's... it's very kind of you to invite me at such short notice."

_ God. Darlin'. As if I'd let you go. _

"Sleep for now?" Greg says, nudging the door open. He gestures for Mycroft to go through. "Deal with all the rest when we're awake?"

"I think that sounds very sensible," Mycroft says. He steps through into Gregory's lounge-and-kitchen combo, casts a glance around and quietly tuts. "Gregory... where exactly is this mess you've mentioned? This is perfectly acceptable."

_ You're being kind,  _ Greg thinks—but it means the world to him that Mycroft would want to be kind. As he begins to unbutton his long black coat with those pale and elegant fingers, Greg tries not to gaze at him like a lovesick puppy.  _ Christ,  _ he thinks, his heart aching.  _ You don't even realise how perfect you are, do you? _

_ And you're here.  _

_ You're actually, properly here. _

Greg locks the door to keep them safe. They won't be going anywhere, not for several hours at least. A short nap in a hard plastic chair isn't enough proper rest for anyone. He takes Mycroft's coat and hangs it up, then unzips his own and places them side by side, his heart thumping nervously in the quiet.

"D'you want a cup of tea, maybe?" he says, turning around from the coatstand. He gathers up last night's discarded cereal bowl and coffee mug. "Might help switch our heads off, maybe. Or... I don't know, cocoa or something. I've got all sorts."

Mycroft smiles a little. "If you're making a drink for yourself, then... but there's no need on my account."

_ All these years,  _ Greg thinks.  _ All the hours I've spent dreaming about you here. Now I don't even know what to do with you.  _ He puts it down to lack of sleep and shock. A few hours rest, and they can get on with two decades of catching up. The hospital are looking after Sherlock, at least. They'll be calling Mycroft to let him know how he's getting on.

_ Until then... _

"Get as comfy as you like," Greg says with a nervous smile, and he transfers the dirty pots into the sink. He reaches out to turn on the tap.  _ Christ, why didn't I take the bin out? I bet there's out of date food in the fridge. _ "My home's your home. Bathroom's through the door on the right, if you want to shower or anything. Bedrooms are through the door on the left. You're, erm... you're welcome to come in with me, or there's the spare. Whatever's okay for you."

Mycroft drifts into the kitchen area behind him.

"And I, erm... I've got PJs you can borrow," Greg adds, his pulse picking up. Mycroft comes closer, soundless on the laminate floor. "Might be a bit big on you, but... well, it'll be something to sleep in..."

Gentle arms loop around his waist from behind. Mycroft's chin tucks itself against Greg's shoulder; he reaches out, switching off the running water as he holds Greg.

"Your home is wonderful," he says, so softly it stutters Greg's pulse. Greg's eyes fall closed at once. "It's far tidier than you think. Please don't worry. I can't tell you how happy I am to be here."

_ Fuck, it's real.  _

_ It's all actually real. _

Greg can barely breathe. He swallows a little, reminding himself that honesty is the key to a happy relationship.

"Keep worrying you're gonna vanish," he admits in a mumble. Mycroft's hug tightens around his waist. "Want it to be nice, so you'll stay."

Mycroft huffs against his neck.

"Perhaps I  _ should _ show you my house before I sell it," he comments. "It's less a home and more of a living crypt."

Greg can't believe that. He smiles, reluctantly releasing some of his nerves. "Must be bigger than this place, though."

"Mhm. Vast and empty. There's nothing I want less."

"Yeah? Y-you've not seen my room yet. There's barely space enough for the bed."

Mycroft hums against Greg's neck. "Ideal," he remarks, pressing a shy kiss to the corner of Greg's jaw. Greg feels something bright and soft go glittering through his blood. "You're sweet to lend me nightwear. Thank you. I might ask my assistant to collect a few things from the house for me later, and bring them here, but... until then, I have only a single wish."

Greg's heart pulls. Whatever it is, he'll cross oceans to make it come true. "Tell me, darlin'. I'll sort it out for you."

Mycroft's nose brushes against his jaw. 

"I'd like to sleep together," he says in Greg's ear. A shiver tickles up Greg's spine, glorious and overwhelming. "I'd like to hold you while you rest. It's... been a long two decades. I don't give a damn if you've washed up."

A long-held knot slowly loosens in Greg's chest. He almost feels it slip apart, inhaling as he faces the fear it releases.

"I waited my whole life for you to be here," he says. "We're... so close, and you're my everything. I just... god, I have so much to give you. Tell you. Do for you. I don't know where to start. I don't want to get this wrong. Not after all this time."

Mycroft lays another kiss against his neck.

"Recall that it's a miracle enough for me to have heard your voice," he says. "Even once. Let alone twice. Let alone to have known you for twenty years, and loved you, and now have the chance to lie down somewhere quiet with you and rest."

Mycroft stirs, loosening his arms—he gives a gentle pull to the back of Greg's jumper.

"Come with me," he murmurs.

As they move through the flat towards Greg's bedroom, their hands find each other. Their fingers quietly tangle.

The bedroom's no tidier than the lounge. There's lube on the nightstand from earlier, and Greg winces a little at the sight of it, then recalls that it was Mycroft murmuring love and softness as he used it. Mycroft doesn't seem to care, at least. He doesn't even seem to notice the unmade bed or the work trousers discarded on the floor. He closes the curtains as soon as he reaches them, tucking their folds together with care to block out the light.

He then turns to Greg, and reaches for him. 

Greg steps close in nervous hope.

His pulse kicks hard as they kiss. Their arms gather around each other, promising that this is real, and the steady brush of Mycroft's fingers through his hair helps to calm him.  _ You're here,  _ Greg thinks.  _ You're really here.  _ It's okay for them to kiss; it's okay for him to fall. As Mycroft gently pushes up the front of his jumper, undoing his belt for him, his breath snags in the back of his throat.

"I love you," comes out of his mouth, a nervous plea for reassurance. He suddenly feels like an eighteen-year-old virgin again. "I love you, darlin'."

"I adore you," his soulmate whispers, opening the buckle. "I... I want to... without our clothes. Not for sex."

Greg understands at once. The longing burns through his blood. "Just to..."

"Mhm." Mycroft draws a breath, nudging at his lips for more kisses. "Bond."

"Christ—" Greg pulls him closer, shuddering, and reaches for the buttons of his shirt.

They undress each other quickly. Greg's relieved; he doesn't want this to feel like some great ceremony. He wants it to be the most normal thing in the world, two lovers just needing to feel each other and block the world out. There's a nervous sort of care to it, helping each other off with their shoes, guiding Mycroft's arms out of his shirt. Clothes are dropped to the floor to be dealt with later. They get into bed in a hurry, drag the covers up around them and hug, and the chill of Mycroft's skin as their bare legs tangle steals the breath from Greg's lungs. Mycroft is almost shockingly cool to the touch, so soft and so naked it's unreal. Greg wraps himself around Mycroft as much as he possibly can, panting; Mycroft's fingers wind tight into his hair.

For a minute or two they simply hold each other, shocked. Their pulses slowly settle, their hearts soothed just for being pressed together. Mycroft's grip in Greg's hair starts to ease. He caresses and smooths through the strands instead, feeling Greg, touching him, learning what this is like.

A shudder of relief runs down Greg's back.

"What d'you think it really means?" he asks, stroking the small of Mycroft's spine. "Soulmates, I mean. What... what makes it different to other love?"

Mycroft takes a little while to reply.

"I used to wonder this," he says, pressing his cheek against Greg's. "Rather a lot, when we first... I didn't know really what to expect. What would be involved." 

He pauses, his fingers tracing some pattern at the nape of Greg's neck. 

"I finally reached the conclusion that the higher powers of the universe, for reasons of their own, felt that you and I should know each other very intimately. The rest would all reveal itself in time."

Greg's never heard anything so comforting in all his life.

"Feels strange," he says at last, his throat gripping at the words. "Known you so long, but... th-there's so much about you I don't know. So much that's still new."

"I think that's rather the greatest joy of it, in a way."

"What d'you mean?"

"Well... no matter how close we've become, there is still closeness left to discover. Intimacies and fragilities left to share." Mycroft places a quiet kiss to Greg's cheek. "And it can all be shared within a... a sanctuary, I suppose, of memory. Of knowing there's a great deal we share. Knowing we are compatible."

Greg's heart expands with relief; he breathes the words deep into his veins. 

"We're gonna need those six months off work," he murmurs. "Aren't we?"

"Mm. We are." Mycroft hesitates, stroking through his hair. "Gregory, I... I can support us very comfortably, especially once the house is sold. We could go away, perhaps, while that's taking place. Spend a few weeks together somewhere."

The thought is desperately comforting. Greg isn't entirely sure why—some craving for newness, some need to leave the old behind. He doesn't necessarily need to go somewhere gorgeous, just somewhere he's never been. He wants to fill his eyes with things they've never seen before, while holding the hand of the man he's waited all this time to know.

_ It'll come, _ Greg thinks, breathing in, brushing his nose through Mycroft's hair.  _ All of it. Everything we've not got yet. _

Mycroft shivers in his arms and nestles closer.

"I'd love that," Greg murmurs to him, kissing the curve of his shoulder. "Go off somewhere. When Sherlock's..."

"Yes. When he's... w-when I've supplied all the help that he needs."

"Professional help?"

Mycroft doesn't answer for a moment. "It's... I'm... reluctant to involve people unnecessarily, if this can be..."

"Darlin', this isn't something you handle alone like a dirty secret. This is something where you involve as many people as possible, as many support structures, as many helping hands as you can find. The more openly this is all addressed and treated, the more likely he'll be to tell us next time he's struggling. If you act like it needs to be covered up and kept hidden, he'll hide things."

Mycroft hesitates, silent and nervous in Greg's arms.

"I'll be here," Greg says, softly. "I've got colleagues who specialise in this stuff. There's entire teams at work. I'll ask them what they'd recommend, then come bring you some options you might decide to think about. But I'll be right here, whatever's happening."

He smiles a little, nudging Mycroft's cheek.

"He's something we share, anyway. It'll help us bond."

Mycroft exhales; he gives a quiet nod. "Yes, that's... that's very true." He smiles, drawing back enough to glance shyly into Greg's eyes. "Forgive me," he says. "Today I met both my soulmate of twenty years and the very competent, responsible Scotland Yard officer who has befriended my brother. I'm still endeavouring to fully understand that they are one and the same man."

Helpless to a bubble of joy, Greg grins. He pulls at his lower lip with his teeth, gazing into Mycroft's eyes.

"What d'you think he'll say?" he asks. "Sherlock. When he finds out, I mean."

Mycroft releases a weary sigh. "I dread to think, frankly. He's always expressed incredulity over the idea that I have a soulmate. He did have a connection of his own, but he severed it within minutes by deducing aloud that the poor man was a medical student of some kind. Intelligence comes in many forms, not all of them equal."

"Christ. M'glad you didn't try any of that."

"Mm. As am I. And as to Sherlock... well, I suppose his opinion on our private business is very secondary."

Greg smiles, adoring every syllable that comes out of his mouth. "Are you saying you don't give a rat's arse, darlin'?"

His soulmate's eyes sparkle.

"I believe I am," Mycroft says, tilting his cheek into the stroke of Greg's fingertips. He looks amazing like this, all soft and safe beneath the covers of Greg's bed—like he's supposed to be here. He's beautiful. "There are various things which need to change within Sherlock's life," Mycroft says. "That his older brother is now contentedly united with a soulmate is not one of them."

_ God. _

_ Mine—you're— _

_ You're actually mine—  _

"Can I kiss you?" Greg whispers, overcome. Even pressed skin to skin, their legs entwined and their hearts close enough to feel each other beating, they seem too far apart. "You're... J-Jesus, I... I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but..."

Mycroft fractionally raises an eyebrow. 

"I've never felt this comfortable in my life," he says, gazing into Greg's face. "Darling... why this sudden nervousness? What's distressing you?"

The answer runs Greg down like a truck. He feels his expression break with it; twenty years comes flooding up through the cracks. 

In the space of two seconds, he's close to tears.

"I just can't believe you're here," he gets out, shaking. Mycroft gathers him close beneath his chin, hushing him softly as his words turn into whimpers. "I just—f-fuck—I was so fucking worried you were gone. Just  _ gone.  _ And that might've been the last time we ever—and now—n-now it's—fuck, we can have everything. Everything we talked about. I can't believe you're here."

He buries himself in Mycroft's neck, trying to breathe and not cry.

Mycroft gathers the covers around him. He wraps him so close they barely feel like two bodies anymore, only one, two souls in one life, cradling each other in the quiet half-darkness. There's no need even to talk. They've spent twenty years unable to do anything but talk; it's enough now just to hold each other. Mycroft will understand better than anyone how this feels. Within a few quiet minutes, Greg can feel dampness falling against the top of his head. He holds Mycroft tighter, closer; Mycroft kisses him, gently but fiercely, on the temple.

"I suspect we're both suffering a degree of shock," he says. He guides Greg's face up to look at him, cups Greg's jaw in both his hands and presses their foreheads together, looking deeply and gently into his eyes. "But that is very normal, I imagine. And we can suffer it together, as slowly and as patiently as we both need."

_ God.  _ Greg's heart strains. It's hell of a feeling, being looked at that way—being promised something so calmly, so softly and sincerely. He wonders if Mycroft has any idea how safe he makes people feel, how easy he is to trust.

Before Greg can put it into words, Mycroft leans in close.

He lays his lips on Greg's with absolute gentleness, as if he's trying not to hurt Greg—as if he worried he might frighten him, overwhelm him with even this tiny brush of contact. Greg's chest seems to cave in an instant. He slides his hands up Mycroft's back to keep him close, shivering, and responds with warmth and need to the kiss. Shyly, they melt together at the lips. With each new brush they soften, relaxing into the mutual reassurance that this is alright. This is a part of their lives now. They have more ways to talk than just with words.

They talk without speaking for quite some time, kissing so tenderly and gently that Greg almost forgets they're naked together. The wrap of their bare skin leaves him feeling young and fragile, rather than aroused. Sex couldn't be further from his mind. This closeness is for comfort, not for pleasure; there'll be time for pleasure when he knows Mycroft won't just vanish any moment.

They kiss until he can feel Mycroft's energy ebbing from the motions of his lips, until the softness and warmth of a quiet bed begins to coax them both towards sleep.

"Are you tired, darlin'?" Greg whispers. 

His soulmate gently nods, taking another soft kiss from his mouth. "Mm. Would it be alright if I sleep?"

_ God.  _ "'Course. I'll sleep with you." Greg brushes back a little of Mycroft's hair, gazing into his sleepy grey-blue eyes. "Wake me up if you want anything. There's food, for when you're hungry. Anything you want."

Mycroft shivers, stroking a gentle thumb across his mouth. "Thank you," he whispers.

Greg's heart gives a pull. "Don't have to thank me," he says. "You're home now. Everything here is yours. All of it."

His soulmate smiles.

"Everything?" Mycroft asks, and lays his fingertips on Greg's heart. It beats for him, deeper, harder, needing him.

_ Hardly dare to kiss you,  _ Greg thinks,  _ but I'd marry you this afternoon.  _

It makes him smile.

They'll be alright.

"Everything," he says, and he leans in close, kissing his soulmate slowly one last time. He won't sleep without just one more kiss. The touch of their lips gently lingers. Mycroft smiles against his mouth, and Greg knows beyond all doubt he would die for him, right this moment, without a thought. "I love you, darlin'. I love you more than my life."

Mycroft's smile becomes a grin.

"I love you, too," he whispers—then, "Remind me of your name."

Greg grins from ear to ear.  _ You know very well. _ "It's Greg, gorgeous. Greg Lestrade."

"Mm." Mycroft steals a final, feather-soft kiss. "Lestrade for now," he remarks, settling down to sleep. As Greg's heart pinwheels off into the sky, Mycroft adds, "Remind me of your middle name. I did see it in your file."

"It's Matthew, love."

"'Gift from God'."

"Mm?"

"From Hebrew," Mycroft murmurs, getting comfortable, "via Greek.  _ Mattityahu.  _ 'Gift from God'." He twines one gentle ankle around Greg's. "How fitting."


	6. Pleased

He's exquisitely handsome when he sleeps.

Mycroft simply can't stop looking at him.

There's something almost indulgent about this moment, lying here with the early evening's glow upon the curtains, drinking his fill of his soulmate's perfect face. Every inch of Gregory needs to be kissed. It has to happen. Mycroft cannot allow himself to ignore such a sacred duty for much longer. Gregory's jaw and his cheeks and his forehead seem to call out to Mycroft's lips, begging them to come and adore him.

If any human in this world was created by the hands of God, it was Gregory Lestrade. 

Liquid heat seems to pour from his skin. Over their hours of rest, he's become almost scorching, so deliciously and animally warm that Mycroft can't bear a single inch of space between them. The man is like a living radiator; he's beautiful. The soft scattering of fur across his chest feels infinitely pleasing to stroke, and his calf muscles are developed and firm. They make the loveliest slope for Mycroft's toes to skim down. His back is broad, his shoulders have just a little muscle to them, and when Mycroft nuzzles into his neck he hums and gathers Mycroft close—squeezes him slowly, rumbles in his sleep. Mycroft will never wear pyjamas again.

He'll never sleep alone again, either. Not once. Not one night. He can't be expected to return to a cold and empty bed with only sheets for company, not now. Not when he's learned what it is to wrapped in his lover's arms. Gregory's large and gentle hands hold his body with faultless care. The sensation is healing wounds that Mycroft hadn't even been conscious of sustaining.

For a while, he endeavoured not to notice Gregory's kindling erection pressed up against his thigh.  _ An unconscious reaction,  _ he told himself, trying to cool the flush in his cheeks.  _ A natural response to bodily contact.  _ Each small shift has now thickened it; Gregory's soft sounds at every whisper of friction are becoming harder to resist. Now and then he paws a little into Mycroft's lower back, his fingers flexing, gently gripping. It feels like an unconscious plea.

He's big. It's so primal and so base that it leaves Mycroft feeling rather guilty—but feeling it, nonetheless. He wouldn't have minded in the least if it were  _ not _ the case. He can't quite deny what it's causing in him, though.

Gregory stretches and hums, huffing, then gathers Mycroft closer with another sleepy rumble. As they settle back together, their erections gently nest. Mycroft digs his teeth into his own lower lip without a sound, curling his fingers tight on Gregory's shoulders. He's always known that orgasm is a powerful craving. He might have remained a blushing virgin all these years, but he's not neglected his own interests. He just didn't realise that having bodily access to a lover would make the longing so absolutely feverish.

_ How do married couples ever get anything done?  _ he wonders, trying not to shiver as his sleeping soulmate noses beneath his chin. The rasp of Gregory's stubble lifts the hair on his arms.  _ How are entire weekends not wasted in bed? _

"Myc?" Gregory murmurs against his neck. Mycroft's eyes melt shut in the rush of sheer joy. The protective hand curled at the side of his hip gently flexs, feeling him, enjoying his closeness. "Mhmm... this okay?"

_ Oh, god. _

"Yes," Mycroft whispers, not quite daring to say anything else. He tightens his grasp on Gregory's shoulders.

Gregory hums again. He begins to kiss Mycroft's neck, slow and soft and coaxing kisses which raise restless moans immediately into Mycroft's mouth. He bites down on them and shivers, trying to conceal his desperate flood of excitement. Slowly Gregory trails up his neck towards his earlobe, then catches it with his tongue. He takes it in between his teeth; he nibbles, softly tugging.

Mycroft's helpless squirm slides their erections together. He can't hide his little gasp. He blushes, mortified, and begs himself to have some restraint.

Gregory's fingers paw into his hip.

"Darlin'," he whispers in Mycroft's ear, as soft as smoke, his voice still dusky with sleep. "D'you want me to stop? It's alright if you do."

Mycroft's heart kicks against his ribs.

"No," he says. A tremor runs through his fingers; he curls them tight. "No, don't... don't stop."

Gregory draws a breath against his neck. "D'you want me to go on a little?"

_ Oh, Christ. _

"Yes," Mycroft whispers, his stomach tightening.  _ Oh, god. Twenty years.  _ "That would be..."

Gregory's hand brushes gently up his bare side. Just as slowly it strokes down again, letting Mycroft arch with it, letting him feel. "Can I tip you onto your back?" he asks.

Mycroft nods, no longer able to speak.

Gregory rolls him over with the utmost care, every movement gentle, every touch considered. Leaning over Mycroft, he reaches up to ease the pillow into place behind Mycroft's head. Mycroft's pulse skitters and reels. Something is about to happen to him, something he'll recall for years to come—and while he doesn't yet know precisely what, his entire body aches for it. Every fragment of his skin is already willing to plead. Gregory's hands skim down his sides beneath the sheets, petting him, relaxing him. He comes to settle on top of Mycroft, placing one knee between Mycroft's thighs, and leans down.

They kiss, slowly and deeply, shivering as they sink into exploring each other's mouths. Mycroft winds his fingers with longing through his lover's hair. Gregory stirs. Their erections nuzzle into alignment, brushing—almost lazy.

As he begins a slow and careful rocking, rubbing their bodies together, pleasure erupts through Mycroft's senses. Their kiss stifles his whimper; he kisses Gregory harder, trembling. Gregory's breath quietly snaps and he returns the kiss just as fiercely, moving just as slowly, guiding his cock in gentle thrusts against Mycroft's.

_ Oh, god—  _

Mycroft fights the urge to pant, shaking as he nervously spreads his legs. Gregory shivers against him and shifts, moving to occupy the space he's being offered. It's easier this way—easier to slowly and smoothly rub together, sharing this contact.

_ Should I do anything?  _ Nothing else seems to need to be done. It seems alright simply to feel for now, to kiss, to enjoy the steady friction and the solidity of the muscles in Gregory's upper arms. It's perfect: the ease of it, the quietness, the first signs of Gregory's breaths turning into moans. This is how they'd have made love when they were young. Nervous, shy, two young men enchanted with each other who found their bodies felt nice when eased together.  _ I want you,  _ every coil of their tongues seems to say, both shaking as they harden.  _ I want all of you. I want to show you. _

When their kiss finally breaks, they both gasp. 

Gregory nuzzles against Mycroft's hot cheek, shivering. "Can I go down on you, darlin'?" he begs. "Look after you with my mouth?" His breath breaks. "I want to help you come."

_ Oh—dear Jesus— _

"Yes," Mycroft's mouth says for him, his heart hammering itself out of rhythm. "Please. Yes."

Gregory kisses him fiercely, drinking him—adoring him—then with shaking fingers, he strokes back an errant curl of Mycroft's hair.

"Tell me to stop if you don't like it," he whispers, staring into Mycroft's eyes. His own pupils are wide and dark, swollen with helpless love. "Promise me?"

Mycroft's heart bucks. "I promise."

Gregory kisses him, one last time. "I love you," he breathes against Mycroft's mouth. He then slowly begins to kiss down his body, pulling the covers with him as he goes.

Within the first few glides of his lover's tongue, Mycroft is lost. His heart and soul have belonged to Gregory all his life. Now his body belongs to him, too. There's nothing he won't do in exchange for this. There's no feeling that will ever compare. His restless squirms and whimpers only earn him more pleasure, more slow and gentle licking. His every panting glance down the bed calls Gregory's eyes up to his own. After long minutes Gregory slides him with care inside his mouth, gliding gently back and forth. His hands steal their way beneath Mycroft's open thighs. They wrap either side of his waist, holding him, tempering the instinctive arching of his hips—and all Mycroft can do is lie back and enjoy it, the pleasure he's waited twenty years to experience.

In the fuzzy, perfect warmth of his afterglow, the setting sun floods the room with colour for him: yellow gold, peachy pink then deepest red.

His soulmate smiles against his forehead, proud. 

"Was that alright?" Gregory murmurs, stroking Mycroft's hair.

A happy shiver transverses the length of Mycroft's body. "It was wonderful," he says. He smiles, deciding to indulge the shy glitter of mischief that orgasm has left in his blood. "You might have to repeat the experience before I'm certain, of course."

Gregory's smile breaks into a grin against his temple. 

"I will, mm?" he says, stirring, and slides a hand down Mycroft's side beneath the covers. Mycroft arches, his mouth opening with enjoyment; Gregory claims his parted lips with a kiss. "Sure I can manage that," he husks. Mycroft's heart seems to whirl, dizzy. "Maybe we'd better try some more wonderful things, too. Help you decide."

Mycroft presses his teeth into his lower lip. "Gregory?" he whispers, shivering with joy as his lover strokes him.

Gregory nuzzles up beneath his chin. "Mm, love?"

Mycroft isn't sure why he wishes to know. He simply does, for his own curiosity. "Would that act usually count towards loss of virginity?"

In response, Gregory hums.

"Tricky thing, virginity," he remarks. "S'much harder to get rid of than everybody makes out. It's not like a pane of glass, one tap and you're done." 

He catches Mycroft's earlobe between his teeth, grazing it, toying with it. 

"Virginity's like a jar of chocolate sauce," he murmurs. "Takes time and dedication to chase down every last little smudge. Don't you worry though, darlin'. I'm a dedicated man."

*

Anthea arrives not longer after eight. She greets Mycroft at the door with a curiously perky inquiry as to his day, insists on carrying his suitcase into the lounge for him, then casts a discreet and hopeful glance around.

Mycroft cleans away his smile with a swipe of his tongue.

"Gregory is in the shower," he says.

This only seems to cause her further delight. She masks it quickly beneath a purely professional expression, though her eyes are still sparkling. 

"I imagine Inspector Lestrade was also pleased by the news, sir?" she says.

Mycroft's heart gives a tiny, restless flip. "Mm," he replies, as casually as he's able. "He was extremely pleased."

Anthea looks briefly as she dearly wishes to hug him. 

"I wasn't sure if you'd require the paperwork at once," she says, happily flushed, "so I've had it all sent to your office at the Diogenes. I can bring it at a moment's notice. Do I recall you mentioning that you'll be arranging some annual leave?"

"Ah, yes. A fairly lengthy stretch of it. I'm sure that in light of my years of service..."

"Frankly, Mr Holmes, they won't dare to refuse. They'll manage without you for a few months or they'll risk having to manage without you in perpetuity." Admiring the room, Anthea spots with pleasure the ironing board propped against a nearby bookcase. "He irons," she remarks.

"He seems very house-proud in general," Mycroft says. He can't quite keep this small joy to himself. "He was anxious that he hadn't had an opportunity to tidy."

Anthea gives him a fond, wry glance. "By the standards of most single men in their early forties, sir, this is pristine."

Mycroft gathered as such. "I suppose if we are... well,  _ matched..."  _ he says.

"Mm," she agrees. "The powers-that-be would never have shackled you to some slovenly ape."

_ Ah. Quite. _

"I'm very pleased for you, Mr Holmes," she goes on, and Mycroft finds himself touched by the sincerity in her expression—her genuine and unconcealed joy for him. He's never seen her smile like that. "I hope that if there's any way I can helpful to you or to Gregory as your life together begins, you'll let me know at your first convenience."

_ Our life together,  _ Mycroft thinks. It sends a feeling through his soul like sunlight—like the first days of spring after a long and cruel winter. His heart now seems to contain a singing bird. He thinks it might only be the first of its kind; more will come as the weeks go by.

"That's kind of you," he says, briefly lost for words, trying to think how to express some sense of this wild and wonderful happiness in terms that are professional. He simply can't. He simply gazes at her, struggling. 

She seems to understand. Her expression gently softens; her eyes take on a shine.

"Will you be moving into your home together, sir?" she asks.

"No," Mycroft says. "No, I... I want to sell it. As soon as possible." He doesn't care if it sells for a pittance, furniture and all. The truth slots into place, clicks, and in an instant it feels so solid that he can't quite believe he didn't realise until now. "That building has never been my home."

The shine in his assistant's eyes becomes a quiet, helpless gloss.

"Of course not," she says. She smiles, gripping the strap of her handbag. "You've found him now, though."

Mycroft swallows. He swallows twice, and breathes, and draws his expression back under some kind of control.

"Indeed," he says. It takes a few words for his voice to start sounding like his own again. "I'd appreciate your help in preparing the house for sale. Gregory and I haven't discussed it, but I hope to go abroad together while that takes place. We'll find a new home which suits us both once we've returned."

She nods, retrieving her phone from inside her coat, and types at speed.

"In the interim," Mycroft says with another breath, his chest loosening further, "we'll stay either here or at a hotel, dependent on Gregory's wishes. We'll need to make security arrangements for that. And... Anthea, I... hoped you might look into transferring my brother into private medical care."

"Of course, sir. The usual—?"

"Ah—no. To somewhere new." Mycroft braces himself, knowing it is for the best. "I'd like you to research private clinics in the UK which specialise in treating drug addiction. I don't care about the costs involved. So long as he has access to the most comprehensive care and support currently available."

She hides her surprise well, typing with her eyes down. "Yes, sir. I'll supply you with a shortlist."

"Excellent," Mycroft says. Gregory will be pleased, he thinks. Proud. And if Sherlock gets the treatment he requires, then the motivation behind the decision hardly matters. "I imagine there are significant changes about to occur in my life," he goes on, and her shoulders rise on a discreet, happy sigh. "I suppose it makes sense to ring in change in other matters, too."

"Very true, sir." She glances up from her notes, smiling. "Going forwards, if there are enquiries from work contacts as to the nature of your absence, should I—"

A door clunks open across the lounge.

"Darlin'?" comes a voice, interrupting her. Gregory appears, shrouded in steam, dripping wet and blinking from the shower. "You wouldn't just pass me that towel from the—"

Mycroft and Anthea realise he's naked in the same moment. As Mycroft covers his mouth, she draws a stiff breath and spins on her heel, averting her widened eyes.

"Oh!" Gregory shies back behind the doorframe. "Christ—s-sorry—"

Mycroft hurries to retrieve the towel from a nearby radiator. As he cloaks Gregory's nudity for him, trying not to smile, his soulmate gives him a sheepish grin.

"Sorry," he says again, with a glance at Anthea's turned back. Mycroft is unsurprised to discover that he's even more lavishly attractive while wet. "Didn't realise we had..."

"My assistant," Mycroft says, amused, "Anthea. Anthea, this is Gregory. I believe you've already met."

"Good evening, inspector," Anthea says, her voice raised, still gallantly facing the fridge. "My hearty congratulations to you both."

Gregory's eyes shine. They gaze up at Mycroft, bright with affection and joy. "Thanks, doll," he says, addressing Anthea. "D'you, erm... d'you want a cup of tea? I'll just need a minute to put some pants on."

"It's quite alright, inspector. I'll be leaving you to enjoy the rest of your evening soon. There's no need to dress on my account."

Mycroft's heart thumps. As he lifts a hand to touch Gregory's cheek, Gregory's pupils grow. He bites his lip, rests his cheek against the doorframe, and enjoys the stroking.

"Are you hungry?" Mycroft asks him.

Gregory shivers a little. "Bit famished, to be honest. I'll see what I've got in the freezer for us."

"I'm sure Anthea would be happy to bring us food," Mycroft says. He leans forward to press his lips to Gregory's forehead. He can't help it. "Have a think while you finish," he murmurs. "Anything you'd like."

"Alright..." Gregory bites the corner of his lip, soft-eyed and so pretty in his soft red towel it should be illegal. "Won't be long."

He slips out of sight again, closing the door.

Mycroft's assistant turns towards him slowly, her eyebrows still raised several inches.

"I probably don't need to tell you that you're lucky, Mr Holmes," she says.

Mycroft surrenders to his smile.

She really doesn't.

*

They're lying in bed together at midnight, finishing the last of the prawn crackers from an open bag on Gregory's chest. Music plays quietly from the bedside. They've built this playlist over a matter of years, adding songs each time they've met. Now they finally get to listen to it.

"How long d'you think we're going to be nocturnal?" Gregory asks, glancing down.

Amused, Mycroft reaches up to feed him another scrap of cracker. "Perhaps if we try to get up a little earlier tomorrow," he says as Gregory chews, settling comfortably against his shoulder. "Take a brief walk. Natural light should help stabilise our sleep cycles."

"Smart," Gregory says. He kisses the tips of Mycroft's fingers. "Supermarket, maybe? Fill the cupboards?"

_ The supermarket. Together.  _

_ God help me. _

"That sounds wonderful," Mycroft manages, a little breathless. "I'd like that."

Gregory's mouth quirks into a smile. "Yeah?" he murmurs, his gaze fond as it trails Mycroft's face. "You don't mind domestic?"

Mycroft's pulse flickers, lost in those deep brown eyes.  _ My home,  _ he realises.  _ The place I belong in this world. _

"I've waited many years to be domestic," he says. He reaches up, touching his soulmate's cheek, his jaw, gently stroking his face. "This feels like it always has," he whispers. Gregory smiles against the brush of his fingertips, understanding him at once. "I want to stay awake all night just to be with you," Mycroft says. "Hear your voice. You're... here, as close as you could ever be, and still I long for you."

Gregory presses a quiet kiss to the centre of his palm.

"Maybe that's what makes us soulmates," he says, holding Mycroft's eyes in his own. "That feeling. Longing, even now we're together."

Mycroft's heart seems to swell to twice its size.

"I won't ever have my fill of you," he says. Gregory takes in every word, his gaze soft and dark with love, not leaving Mycroft's face for a moment. "I've never been this happy in my life. Never once. I've never felt so perfectly at peace."

His soulmate smiles, nuzzling into the caress of his hand.

"I might have to drop into work for an hour tomorrow," he murmurs. "Speak to my super. Explain the situation and get myself signed off."

"That's quite alright." Every minute apart will be hell; Mycroft isn't certain how he'll cope. "I'll... visit Sherlock, perhaps. See how he is."

They watch each other for a moment, quiet.

"Come with me," Greg says. He presses his lips to Mycroft's thumb. "Into work. Then we'll both go see Sherlock." He reaches up, wrapping his hand over Mycroft's, and their fingers gently entwine. "We're a couple now," he says. "Bonded. Found each other. M'not ready to do things separately yet."

The relief is overwhelming. Every single muscle in Mycroft's neck and chest unwinds.

"Nor am I," he says. He stirs, leaning close to place his lips against the slope of Gregory's nose.  _ You want your workmates to see me. Your superior.  _ "Not nearly ready."

Gregory shivers, tipping his chin up. His mouth brushes softly over Mycroft's, then catches Mycroft's lips in a kiss.

Shivering, Mycroft pushes the bag off his chest.

By one o'clock, Gregory has located and dispelled a few more fragments of Mycroft's virginity. At what point he will be considered fully relieved of the burden, Mycroft does not know—and does not care. He is in Gregory's expert hands now. If these things take years to vanquish properly, then so be it.

They have plenty of years left to come, after all.

*

Mycroft wakes the next morning to the distant mumble of music and the scent of frying food. He stirs, reaching beneath the covers to find his lover's body and gather close to it, but his fingertips discover only cool and empty sheets. He opens his eyes at once, blinking.

Overnight, what can only be described as a stockade of presents has been built beside the bed. 

Mycroft stares in astonishment between one beautifully-wrapped parcel and the next, not entirely certain he's awake. On some, the coloured paper seems to have faded or grown fragile with the passage of time; others shine as if they were wrapped just last week. A pile of cards atop the wall has spilled sideways under their own weight, coloured envelopes jumbled playfully all together.

Realisation dawns.

Mycroft no longer needs to count the cards to know that there are twenty.

A torn notebook page lies beside him on the pillow.  _ Just making breakfast,  _ it reassures him in scribbled biro, with a smiley face and no less than five kisses.  _ Happy belated birthdays (x20). I love you. _

Mycroft gazes down at the note, holding it.

It seems to gaze back up at him.

These are the words of the man he will marry. His eyes return to the final three over and over, taking them in, overwhelmed that they belong to him. He's never seen those words written in someone's hand before. He's never been left a gentle note to wake up to, 'I love you' simply because Gregory wanted those words to be the first thing Mycroft heard this morning.

_ And it will always be this way,  _ he thinks. 

There will always be those words. Every birthday will start with another parcel, another card for his collection. Sherlock will now have two champions, united in properly meeting his needs. From this day on, the bond that Mycroft shares with his soulmate will only strengthen and deepen and grow closer with each passing day.

This is just the start.

It starts with 'I love you' and twenty years of hope, laid out for him to finally open.

Mycroft lifts his gaze to the pile of gifts, unsure when his vision blurred. Their colours swim within his eyes, as deep and beautiful as stained glass.

_ I'm going to be happy all my life. _

_ Oh, god. I love you too. _


	7. Home

**_Two Years Later_ **

As soon as the plane touches down on English soil, Mycroft's heart begins to leap. The drive from Leeds Bradford Airport to the doorstep will take around an hour and a half, but the time seems like nothing whatsoever. Seven nights have left him wild with longing; he's never been quite so desperate for home. 

The car retrieves him directly from the runway, sparing him the inconvenience and fuss of customs, and heads at once for the A658. 

Every mile of familiar scenery floods more joy and relief into Mycroft's veins: wide open fields of pale gold wheat, scruffy green hedgerows beneath an endless blue sky. Today is the final day of June. The sun will shine upon these fields long past nine o'clock. Everything seems green and at peace, full of life, and the miles breeze past in a haze.

Sometimes on this journey, he works and conducts business. His laptop functions just as well while driving through Yorkshire as it ever did at his desk in the Diogenes. 

Today, he simply watches the horizon and smiles.

A week overseas wouldn't have merited a blink, three years ago. The Foreign Office had tried wheedling him into two weeks for this trip. He'd explained to them in no uncertain terms that two weeks was out of the question, and that they should consider even one week to be an extravagant demand, particularly given the date upon which he'd be expected to return. Their attempts to soften him with promises of five star hotels had fallen on deaf ears. 

_ One week abroad,  _ he'd told them,  _ to conclude the negoitations—and then you will not contact me for at least a month. _

The truth is that the British government needs him far more than he needs them. They're very well aware of it. There are no illusions anymore. The past two years have seen beautifully to that, and anyone attempting to bend or flex his priorities has been told to source themselves another political consultant.

These days, there is a single priority in Mycroft Holmes's life. Everything else can scuffle over the table scraps.

As they reach the outskirts of the village of Thornton-le-Dale, Mycroft realises how hungry his eyes have been for these small and familiar sights he loves: the perfectly clear stream flowing gently beside the road; the tiny wooden bridges set over it, connecting each pretty stone house to the pavement; the profusion of flowers and greenery in every glance. This place still seems a paradise to him, so very different to London. It still feels like escaping into another world, one which flowered into existence just when it was needed.

He drums his fingers against his knee as the car winds its way along the familiar lane. It pulls to a stop at the usual place, tucked in against the roadside. Mycroft doesn't wait for the driver to get out. He's more than capable of opening a door by himself. Leaving his laptop and his luggage, he strides out into the empty road and wastes no time hurrying over to the bridge. He crosses it in three steps, slips beneath the archway of overgrown ivy and bends to undo the latch on the small metal gate.

Halfway up the path to their cottage, almost breathless with joy, he sees the front door start to open.

DCI Holmes-Lestrade, lately of North Yorkshire Police, appears beneath the climbing ivy. He's beaming, beautiful, more wonderful than he was even a week ago. The sight of his familiar argyle jumper and his jeans take the breath from Mycroft's lungs. Cradled in the crook of Gregory's arm, looking confused and half-asleep, is Misha; Violka patters out around Gregory's legs, rubbing her cheek against his shin.

As she spots Mycroft at a distance, her tail twirls upright and she trills.

Grinning, Greg leans down to Misha.

"Who's that?" he asks, his eyes on Mycroft. Misha meows and bats at his chin. "Is that your Mycroft? Hmm? Is he home at last?"

Mycroft strides the rest of the path at such a speed it's almost a run. Reaching them, he puts his arms around his husband in desperation, hugging Gregory as tightly and longingly as Misha's disgruntled chirp between them will permit. 

Gregory's chest expands in his embrace, drawing a breath of more than air.

"Hey, darlin'," he murmurs in Mycroft's ear.

Happiness glows through Mycroft's soul—endless, longing happiness.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart," he whispers. Between them, Misha lets out a loud, insistent meow. "And  _ hello,  _ young man," Mycroft says, bending down to rub a thumb between his ears. "Hello to you, too. Have you been very good indeed for Gregory?"

Violka, now winding between Mycroft's feet, announces that she has been  _ especially  _ good, even compared to her usual standards. Mycroft kneels down, scoops her up around her sleek grey middle and gathers her into his arms. She trills in delight, squirming as she nuzzles at his lapels.

Gregory's smile could light the village all night. 

"You dodged ahead of the traffic, then?" he asks, stepping back to let Mycroft into the house. "I've got dinner on. Hope you're in the mood for salmon."

"Hardly another vehicle past York," Mycroft says, "and I can't imagine anything more wonderful. You're a miracle, darling. Have you opened your birthday presents yet?"

"Not yet," Gregory says. He leads the way into the lounge, where he leans over the couch to let Misha down out of his arms. "I wanted to wait until you were home. Misha's had a prickle at some of the wrapping paper, though, haven't you, Mish?"

_ "Frrrow." _

"Misha," Mycroft chides. "For shame. Gregory's presents are for Gregory. I take it my brother hasn't arrived?"

"I gave him a ring this morning," Gregory says, gathering Violka from Mycroft's arms. She squirms, batting hopefully at Mycroft's tie as it slips past her. "He says he's coming up tomorrow. Give you time to get settled after your trip, have a proper night's sleep. Apparently he's taking us out to dinner for my birthday."

_ Heavens above.  _ "That's very generous of him," Mycroft remarks, unbuttoning his coat.

"Isn't it?" Gregory says. "I almost didn't know what to say." He smiles, biting his lip. "Did he tell you he's bringing someone?"

"Bringing someone?" Mycroft says, startled. "Are we still discussing my brother?"

"Yep. Said he'd have a friend with him, if that's alright by us."

"A  _ friend?" _

"Apparently he's called John. I checked if one of them would be alright on a camp bed, but Sherlock said not to bother. Spare room'll be fine."

Mycroft's eyes widen. "My... brother recalls that the spare room has a—"

"—double-bed," Gregory says, bright-eyed. "Yep. Reminded him. Still fine."

"Good lord." Mycroft almost can't believe what he's hearing. "Has Sherlock provided any more titbits about this mysterious John, or is he going to be a surprise?"

"Not much," Gregory says. "He's a bit evasive for now. Bit shy, I think. I caught something about retired from the army."

_ Oh, indeed.  _ Mycroft lifts an eyebrow. "Not an army medic of some kind, by any chance?"

"Actually, now you mention it, that would make sense. Sherlock said something about St Bart's. I skipped over it in the blur, but..." As the driver arrives, carrying Mycroft's laptop and his suitcase into the room, Gregory steps over at once. "Here, mate. I'll take those off you. Nothing left to come in, is there?"

"No, sir. This is everything. Will there be anything else for the evening?"

"No, thank you, Thompson," Mycroft says, with a smile. "You can turn in now. Gregory and I will be alright by ourselves."

"Very good, sirs. Good night."

*

They leave the washing up to soak. With the pillar candles lit and two glasses of red wine, they get comfortable in the lounge, Gregory lying the full length of the sofa, Mycroft settled in perfect happiness on his chest. The cats come sneaking over like little shadows to join them, adding themselves slyly to the pile. Violka sprawls out on Mycroft's back; Misha tucks himself in between Gregory's socked feet.

Breathing the scent of his husband's collar, Mycroft decides to himself there is no place closer to heaven on this earth.

"We'd be waiting for each other about now," Gregory murmurs. He hides a kiss against the crown of Mycroft's head. "Watching the sun go down."

It's a mark of how much things have changed that it takes Mycroft a second to recall.

"I don't really understand how we coped," he says when he does, drawing in a deep breath of candlelight. "It seems astonishing that we did."

"You can say that again." Gregory strokes back a little of his hair. "Those nights were everything to me. Getting to hear you, talk to you. Then the morning would roll around and take you away, like it had any right."

Mycroft's heart strains. "Twenty years together," he says, "and yet always dragged apart."

His husband huffs against his hair, smiling. "For most of it, together in the same bloody city."

Mycroft laughs. He's grinning in an instant. "We couldn't have known," he says. "We could have passed each other on the street every single day for years and never realised. Thank god for Sherlock."

"Mm. Thank god." Gregory sighs, taking a drink of wine. "Took him a while, but... well, he managed to drag us together in the end."

"He did." Mycroft cushions his cheek against his husband's shoulder. "I felt desperately guilty, you know."

"Fancying me?"

"Mm. You were the first time I'd felt something so... so  _ visceral,  _ so needy." Closing his eyes, Mycroft presses a kiss to Gregory's neck. "The first time I'd ever thought of reaching out to someone else."

Violka stretches out along his back with a churr, shivering as she fans her toes. 

"I hated the possibility I could want anyone but... well, you," Mycroft goes on. "You'd always been so sacred to me. Such an unexpected miracle. It felt so ungrateful and so callous of me, even contemplating putting that aside."

Gregory huffs, stroking through the back of Mycroft's hair. "Lucky for us the universe has a sense of humour."

"Mhm. Quite."

"No more waiting in agony for sunset. No more dreading the light of the day."

Mycroft smiles, enjoying the sentiment. He lifts his head to kiss his husband's jaw. 

"Just togetherness," he murmurs. "Life as it is meant to be lived."

Violka agrees from Mycroft's back with a chirp, flexing her claws very gently into his jumper.

"Sorry, princess," Gregory rumbles, reaching out to scritch her ear. She squirms with delight into his touch. "Are we disturbing you? You're trying to have a lovely nap, and your dads are being all mushy."

Her melodic meow has Mycroft smiling ear to ear. He nuzzles into his husband's neck, happy to the bone, overwhelmed by the simple joy of how gently Gregory speaks to her. Both cats have adored Gregory since they were kittens. They refuse to visit the vet unless he takes them. They'll often help him to cook dinner, lending their expert assistance by tasting ingredients and dealing with any scraps which happen to fall on the floor.

It's wonderful to be home with them again.

"I'm sorry I was forced to leave you for a week," Mycroft murmurs, closing his eyes. Gregory kisses the top of his head. "Especially ahead of your birthday. I've made my displeasure known at every stage. I doubt I'll be asked again in a hurry."

"S'alright, love," Gregory says, softly. "Work is work." 

Violka squirms, starting to purr as Gregory carries on rubbing down her back. 

"Means we can live in a nice house somewhere gorgeous," Gregory says. "Next time it comes up, I'll have been in the job a bit longer. Maybe I can come with you—or maybe I'll hang on here, take care of Mish and Volky. Look forward to welcoming you back. So long as you always come home, love, I don't mind."

Mycroft's heart glows.

"Always," he says. "Always, darling."

"Everyone's been teasing me this week," Gregory says, smiling. "Asking if we're on the phone all night, crooning to each other. I've tried not to look as if it's a hundred percent true."

Mycroft chuckles. "Rather like old times, wasn't it?"

"Mm. Nowhere near as good as the new times." Gregory's arms tighten; he gives Mycroft's forehead another kiss. "M'glad you're back, love," he whispers. "House feels like a home again."

_ God help me. Life is wonderful.  _ "I'm glad, too. Endlessly glad."

Violka chirps, asking where her kiss is.

*

The cats are not allowed in the bedroom at night. Though this rule is known, it is often tested.

"Ah, ah—no, Mishy—c'mon. Let's put you back by the radiator."

_ "Frrrrp?" _

"Because you're not allowed in here at night, are you?"

_ "Frrrrrp." _

"I know I did, mate. But Mycroft's home now. So you're going to sleep out here, aren't you? In your incredibly expensive cat bed with your sister. There we go. Much better."

_ "Mrrrrrew—" _

"That's right, princess. Cats in the cat bed, people in the people bed."

_ "Roooow." _

"Well, maybe you can sneak in for cuddles in the morning. But it's been a long week. Greg gets to cuddle him first."

Mycroft smiles into the pillow. Shifting, a hopeful shiver tickles down his bare back.

From the hallway comes the sound of two kisses, one to each forehead.

"Your Uncle Sherlock'll be here tomorrow," Gregory says. "You can sneak in with him and Mysterious John in the spare room. Won't that be fun, eh? They'll love that."

A final sleepy churr is offered.

"All sorts of fun," he murmurs. "You guys have nice dreams. Don't let her hog all the room, Mishy. It's yours too. N'night."

As Gregory slips back inside the bedroom, closing the door behind him, Mycroft lifts his gaze from the pillow. His husband is attired in the soft navy dressing gown Mycroft loves, though nothing else.

"My fault," Greg confesses with a smile, bright-eyed. "I let them in here while you were away."

He unknots the sash of his dressing gown, easing it back from his broad shoulders.

"I'm a soft touch," he adds, as Mycroft's mouth begins to water a little, unable to resist sliding his gaze down his husband's handsome chest. "Should've known they'd get used to the privilege."

Naked, Gregory hangs his dressing gown up behind the door. Mycroft stirs a little as he watches, turning over onto his back.

"Nice to be in our bed again?" Gregory asks, smiling as he approaches.

"Extremely," Mycroft replies, wondering how obvious his thoughts are becoming. It's been twenty months now since he was first able to touch Gregory, kiss him, make love with him. The novelty hasn't worn off in the least. "I never did sleep well in hotels. More so, now that..."

Gregory winks.

"Now you're used to the privilege," he says, pulling back the sheets. Mycroft's stomach gives a desperate squeeze. "I missed you, too."

He eases close to Mycroft at once, kissing him, laying gentle and familiar hands upon his body. Mycroft arches into their touch; it's so hard not to gasp. He lets Gregory pull him close into his arms, coaxing his tongue between Mycroft's restless lips. This aching for Gregory—this longing—has never waned. Mycroft spent his adult life believing himself a person with little interest in sex, with no real need for the warmth of someone's skin.

Then there was Gregory, and everything began to make sense.

Their sex is rarely anything but slow. Orgasm is a lesser goal; pleasure and comfort come first. Gregory's hands and his mouth are tender as they sweep across Mycroft's skin, coaxing him, opening him, easing him to relax into his husband's closeness. He massages Mycroft's back and his feet, kisses his neck and his shoulders until he squirms, then gently nuzzles open Mycroft's thighs. He kisses every freckle; he murmurs love and fondness against every patch of skin. He dotes on Mycroft's cock with his tongue as if they have all night, winding him within a breath of his peak several times. Only then does he reach for the bedside drawer.

Sinking down onto his husband's cock draws Mycroft immediately to the brink. He grips Gregory's hands, hard, trembling and breathing deeply to cool himself. Gregory stirs, murmuring his name. He strokes his thumbs against Mycroft's palms in steady circles.

"Take your time, love," he whispers.

Mycroft waits until the animal urge to ride hard and fast has subsided. He swallows, shivering, and begins instead the shy and gentle rocking which he knows drives Gregory wild.

Gregory's gaze flutters; he stretches beneath Mycroft, sucking in a breath.

"Holy shit," he whispers. He bites down into his lip. "M-Myc—" 

Mycroft grips their tangled fingers tight. He draws Gregory's hands up to the pillow, pinning them either side of his head, and holds Gregory in place as he moves with more purpose. Gregory's expression contorts. He inhales raggedly and bucks a little, gazing up at Mycroft with longing, all dark eyes and flushed cheeks.

"Need you," he breathes. "Need—please—"

Mycroft whispers his name, leaning low to kiss his perfect lips.

When Gregory starts to pant, Mycroft deepens and focuses his rhythm. Gregory moans against his mouth, helpless, bucking up again in search of what he needs.  _ Follow it, darling,  _ Mycroft urges with his kiss. He tightens his grip on Gregory's hands, holding him down.  _ Find it in me.  _ Gregory's breath cuts off in a whine. He ruts upwards, panting, pulling gently against Mycroft's hold—not to break it, not to end it, simply to feel it.

In his afterglow, he categorically refuses to rest.

"Gregory," Mycroft breathes, trembling, as his flushed and sweat-damp husband tips him over onto his back. "Darling—catch your breath—I can wait five minutes—"

Gregory kisses him, hard.

"I can't," he husks as they part, and trails his way down Mycroft's body.

Before Mycroft can say another word, Gregory's fingers slide into him, filling him thickly, slick and smooth with Gregory's own emission. Mycroft's mouth drops open; his back bows upwards from the bed. Gregory swallows him almost to the root in an instant, nuzzling into his groin and sucking him with near-animal longing, rumbling, purring,  _ give it to me. Let me, darlin'.  _ In only minutes, the pulse of pleasure grows tight and sharp. Mycroft hears himself cry out as he starts to climax; the whole world blurs into bliss.

As he returns to himself, aching to his very bones with relief, Gregory crawls up his body. He kisses Mycroft, shivering, and rubs their noses side by side.

"I missed you," he breathes, drinking Mycroft's panting breaths. "I missed you so much. I'm so glad you got home in time."

Mycroft's heart heaves. 

"I couldn't let you be alone," he whispers. "Not tonight. Not on your birthday." 

Gregory grins. He dips close and pulls gently at Mycroft's lower lip. "Haven't spent my birthday alone since you turned eighteen," he says. "Didn't want to break our record."

*

When Mycroft wakes up the next morning, the bed beside him is empty. Sunlight spills through a gap in the curtains, softening the room and waking him gently to the day. Though he could easily sleep a little longer, the sounds and scents of domesticity coming up the staircase change his mind.

He finds his family in the kitchen. Breakfast is underway, bread baking in the oven, a pot of fresh coffee steaming on the table. Two delighted cats look up as he appears, chirping at him in welcome. At the stove, scruffy-haired and smiling in his dressing gown, Gregory is making scrambled eggs: their favourite. Violka has stationed herself between his feet to supervise proceedings, while Misha awaits his share on top of the fridge.

It's a sight worth waiting twenty years for.

Idling up behind his husband, Mycroft slips both arms very gently around his waist. Gregory leans backwards into his hold, still stirring the pan, and grins as Mycroft squeezes him. Violka trills with hope from the floor.

"G'morning," Gregory murmurs, offering his cheek.

Closing his eyes, Mycroft kisses it and holds his soulmate tight.

"I love you," he whispers, as the sunlight streams through the open window.

_ The End _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Just a quick ficlet for Soulmates Week. Won't take more than an hour or two." xDD I'm hilarious. Thank you all for reading, folks. I appreciate your clicks and your kudos so much. I really hope you've enjoyed the story and I hope I'll see you next time. Much love! x


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